


Skin Deep

by Mouse10



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drugs, Homosexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Overdose, Teenlock, University Student John Watson, University Student Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 23,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse10/pseuds/Mouse10
Summary: Set in the 1980s. No cell phones. No personal computers. Oscillates a little between timelines-- that's meant to be fun and I hope not too confusing. Titles of each chapter are all from one band. The content of the chapters are not related to the song, per se.





	1. Hourglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.  
> F. Scot Fitzgerald

LONDON, AUTUMN 1984 It was raining in London. When is it not raining in London? John dragged his suitcase out of the Tube car and up the stairway to the street. Traffic was terrible. When John emerged from Russel Square Station, he took a deep breath, mostly of car exhaust, but it was wonderful. He was so glad to be back in London. 

With very little money in his pocket, John reasoned that walking was his best bet to get to the university. No umbrella, but the rain should let up, he hoped. 

Two blocks up the street, he heard someone calling his name. “John, John Watson!” 

Head down, trudging along, rain dripping down his nose, he did not want to turn around, but the voice was persistent. “John!”

Bugger. 

John stopped and turned. It was Mike Stamford from school, shouting at him from the back seat of a car. The car pulled over to the kerb and the door opened. 

“John get in,” Mike shouted, slightly irritated, opening the door. “You’re soaked through!!”

Sheepishly John got into the back of Mike’s mum’s car, as he found out later, and pulled his suitcase in with him. 

“Thanks Mike, you're a lifesaver.” He admitted quietly. 

“Should’ve called me, we could’ve shared.” Mike said after he introduced John to his mum. 

‘I didn’t think, really.” John said, realizing his socks were soaked with water, his feet wet inside his trainers.

“Thought you’d already had a ride to school.’ Mike said, smiling and poked John in the rib cage with his elbow. 

“What? No, not really.” John said, shaking his head, looking a bit confused at Mike. 

Before John could ask Mike what he meant, they were at the doors of the university. A long line of cars was queuing up in front of the gate.

“We’ll get out here, mum.” Mike said excitedly, sitting forward, seat belt straining.

John got out with his single suitcase. Mike headed back to the boot to unload his school trunk, large suitcase and a few boxes of books.

“Is that all you have?” Mike asked.

“Well yeah.” John could not be bothered by Mike’s observations. His heart was hammering in his chest as he searched the crowd. With so many students’ milling about, all in a hurry, all busy unloading cars it would be impossible to find any one person, even if that person was as distinctive looking as Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Spot the Difference

John did not feel like lingering in the quad. Almost immediately, Mike Stamford beat a hasty retreat to join some mates, wildly waving at them and putting some distance between him and his mum. Mikes mum looked a little put out when he dodged a kiss on the cheek. 

John chuckled softly, shaking his head at Mike. No one wants their mum to kiss and fuss over them when their mates were watching. Mike was sure to take a ribbing later.  
John thanked Mrs Stamford for the ride and said goodbye. The rain had let up, thankfully. John looked around. The quad was a riot of activity now, students getting dropped off, tumbling out of family cars, taxis and walking onto campus, maybe from the Tube like me, John thought. He took off his jacket. It was getting warmer now. 

John took one last look around, not seeing anyone he knew. Groups of students were gathered in clusters of two and threes, chatting. Mostly the courtyard looked the same, John did notice some kids that stood out, lingering on the edges of the quad. Shabbily dressed, they were likely from the council housing near the university. Still, they weren’t causing any trouble. 

Sighing, John realized he just wasn’t going to run into anyone else just yet. May as well head over to the house and ditch the suitcase. He waved goodbye to Mike and grabbed the case.

The house that he was sharing with the rest of the football team was not far from campus. This year John was vice president of the recreation football club. It was just a side activity, no scholarships here, and he knew he wasn’t going to be a professional footballer, but John loved football. 

‘Budget friendly student accommodation!’ the sign in the window read. This made John laugh. Large, shabby and probably poorly heated is more like it, he thought. Just then he realized he didn’t stop to get the key. He tried the doorknob, locked. He knocked softly, no answer. Bugger, how was he going to get in? 

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed 3 of the council house kids from the quad walking quickly down the street. Fine time to be locked out. He’d make a perfect target for a mugging just now. Newly arrived on campus, all the money he had to his name in his pocket. Three thugs advancing menacingly. 

John considered his options. 

-Bang on the door hoping some was inside to open it. No, don’t let them know you are afraid. 

-Walk or run away quickly. No, they’d be too temped to run after him, he knew blokes like this back home. 

-Confront them now. Get the beating over with. John was sure he could hold his own. Well, he hoped. 

He could see one thug coming closer out of the corner of his eye. As he turned his head he realized the other two had left, quickly ducking down a side street. John wondered if they would come up from behind him now. 

Frantically trying to assess just the amount of danger he was facing he balled his hands into fists and took a swing, but Sherlock ducked just in time.

As Sherlock ducked it dawned on John just who this ‘thug’ was.

“Jesus Christ Sherlock!” John yelled, livid, eyes wide and veins bulging in his forehead.

“I guess I fooled you.” Sherlock responded, recovering very calmly, but John could see a thin film of sweat across his brow. 

John bent over, hands on the tops of his thighs, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

“It’s a disguise John. If I can fool you, I can fool anyone. It was an experiment.”

“Some experiment, I was ready to beat the hell out of you. Who were the other two blokes?”

“Oh, that was Raz and Wiggins.”

“…and I guess they’re just gone now?” John threw up his hands relived, but still riled.

“Yes, they are superfluous, well, now.” Sherlock stood in the middle of the walkway, hands stuffed in the front pocket of a hooded sweatshirt. Just now, he looked much younger than his 17 years.

John's heart felt like there was no room in his chest for it to beat, “I’m locked out. I guess I have to go to the rental office. I don’t know how…’

But Sherlock was smiling, pulling a metal key ring out of his pocket, keys jingling.

“Sherlock, why do you have keys to my place?”

John did not get an answer as Sherlock put the keys in the lock and opened the door of John's new house.


	3. Separate Beds

Up the small stoop and into the front hall the boys trudged. John was certainly happy to see Sherlock but the last thing the thought he’d do was almost punch his best friend in the face before properly saying hello. 

“Sherlock, you look terrible.” John mentioned as he tossed his suitcase on the first available bed in a down stairs bedroom.

“Thanks John. I thought the costume was used to good effect.”

John took another good look at Sherlock. He stood there with black, wrinkled, dirty track pants and an oversize grey hooded sweat shirt on. The neck of the sweat shirt was pulled out of shape. Sherlock was also wearing ancient black Converse trainers. When did he own trainers?

“Costume? Right. Where did you get those clothes?”

“Raz, I was afraid to take them from Wiggins.”

“Rightly so. By the way, do you need a bath? Because you..well..” John pointed to Sherlock’s ensemble and Sherlock laughed. 

“No, it’s ok I can do it at mine.” Sherlock said lightheartedly, flopping onto Johns’ unmade bed, then his face became serious. “Of course, it could have been ours instead, but you insisted on living here.”

“Sherlock you know why. Let’s not get into this again. We spend all together too much time with each other and people…talk.”

“So what if they talk? I don’t know why you care what other people think.”

“And I don’t know why you don’t. I just don’t want any trouble. For you or me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As far as John knew, trouble was Sherlocks middle name. He thrived on trouble. He lived for it. But John fought too hard to get here, to this university, and even though Sherlock was important to John, he didn’t want to get sucked down the rabbit hole of Sherlocks chaos. 

For now, Sherlock was just going to have to accept it. Since the boys met last year at university, they spent nary a moment apart, the 3 months of summer holiday being the first time they had been separated since they met. 

“Ok fine then.” Sherlock hopped up from the bed and turned toward John. “Here, catch.” Tossing John the house keys, he spun on his heel toward the bedroom door as if to leave.  
“Sherlock wait.” John said as he caught the keys midair. John walked over to his best friend and caught Sherlock by the left wrist. 

Sherlock looked down at John's hand holding onto his wrist, his breath caught in his chest somewhere. “I have to go,” he said, serious, now looking John in the eyes. 

And John got stuck there, in Sherlock’s gaze, and the room got quiet, just the two of them, distant noises of cars on the street and a few birds chirping in trees near the house. 

Johns voice came out in almost a whisper. “I didn’t get to say that I was happy to see you.” 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, waiting.

John took a step closer to Sherlock, sliding his hand up along the underside of Sherlock's arm until he held his elbow and chuckled, “Yeah, you almost gave me a heart attack today, but I sort of liked it.”

Sherlock laughed and looked away, eyes focused in the distance. Slowly, almost shyly, he glanced back at John, the tops of his cheeks a bit pink. John just now realizing that there was some tension between them-- that they were wary of each other, back together again, after a summer apart. 

“Listen Sherlock, if you are going back to yours, to shower, I could come over after I unpack, ok?” John finally let go of Sherlock's arm. 

Again Sherlock looked in John’s eyes, searching, looking for ? John was not sure what. John looked at Sherlock trying and failing to guess what was going on in his head, when there was a crash in the sitting room, followed by some whooping an hollering, John's flatmates had arrived. 

Both boys jumped. Sherlock stepped out into the hallway. “Fine,” he called over his shoulder, walking away. 

“Wait Sherlock, where do you live?”

“Baker street--221 B.” Sherlock called as he jogged out the door.


	4. This Summer

After Sherlock left the flat, John chided himself. After a summer away, their reunion didn't go exactly as he had planned, but it wasn't all his fault. John blamed Sherlock as well for the bad timing of his 'experiment'. Stomach churning, John immediately thought back to how much he wanted to return to uni and yet, here he was, screwing up. 

It was just not possible to see Sherlock over the summer. Johns days slogged on and ran into one another, sunny days, working, dinners with family, John even saw some mates from primary school. 

John stuck in Chelmsford and unable to drive, working long hours at the local Tesco. John was not too sure just what Sherlock was doing over the summer, he never said. Sherlock was in London-only 20 minutes away by train or car, but it may as well have been the other side of the world.

Sherlock sent him exactly 2 letters that summer and John dutifully wrote back. Sherlocks letters were brief and polite, sparse even. Sherlock seemed to describe just being bored at home. The letters never said anything else about what Sherlock was thinking or feeling. The letters just made John confused. 

Then came the phone call. 

The family dinner was quiet, the summer heat made everyone lazy.

John was about half way through dinner when the phone rang, his mother got up gracefully to get it. 

“Hello? Yes of course.” She turned to John. 

“John it’s for you.” She nodded in his direction. 

John looked up and raised his eye brows to question his mom.

She gave him a look back of sweet calm confusion and put her hand over the mouth piece of the telephone. Mrs. Watson started to speak in a stage whisper. 

“I’m not sure who it is. A professor from uni? Says his name is Holmes.”

Reflexively, John jumped up and gave a sharp turn, his right thigh getting caught on the table leg, practically taking the table with him.

His Dad looked at him in surprise and Harriet started to snicker, and he turned and threw his napkin at her. It landed harmlessly in the middle of the table. 

‘Shut up.” he mouthed.

John pulled his leg out from under the table, knocking his chair over. He also ran his mum over getting to the phone almost dropping the receiver when he got there.

“Hello? Hi Sherlock.” John swallowed hard, waiting. Silence, breathing on the other side.

“John? Hello, sorry to call- is it dinner at yours? Didn’t want to be a bother but…”

John could hear caution in Sherlock’s voice.

“No, its fine really, are you ok?” John immediately recognizing a softness in his own voice. Later, laying upstairs in his bed would he think back to how much he wished he could reach through that phone, even if it was only with his voice. 

It was dinnertime, Johns entire family was home. There was no way he and Sherlock could have any kind of real conversation. He tried to walk the phone as far away from the family as he could to have some degree of privacy.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again. “I just wanted, well, its nothing.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice.” John ventured.

“It’s nice to hear your voice too.” He heard Sherlock say, quiet, soft. 

John heard the floor creak behind him and he turned. Although he could not see anybody, John could not be sure that Harriet was not behind him somewhere, trying to listen in. 

“Sherlock, I have to go.” John whispered.

“Its fine.” Disappointment apparent in Sherlock’s tone.

“Well, it won’t be long now, right, one month?” John hoped that sounded reassuring. 

“I’ll send you another letter.” Sherlock offered matter of factly.

“Ok, please do.” 

“See you at school.”

“Right, see you at school.” The line disconnected. John looked sadly at the phone, wishing that had gone better. 

When John got back to the table his father had already gone, his mother was doing the dishes and Harriet was expectantly glaring at him over her glass of milk.

His dinner had gone cold. 

“Who was on the phone, John?” Harry asked in a sing song voice.

“None of your business, Harry.” John tried to match her sing song with even, measured words.

“A 'professor' at school called you? That’s funny. And funny how you jumped up there-how’s your leg? Looked like you bashed it good. You’ll have a bruise there tomorrow, I warrant.”

“Your face is funny Harriet.” John stared at his dinner plate, trying to feign some interest, but he wasn’t hungry anymore. 

Harry got up smirking and put her dish in the sink.

“You are going to have to tell me sometime, I’ll never let you alone now.”


	5. Big Bang

Sherlock ran all the way to Baker street. He took the 17 steps to his flat 2 steps at a time. Once in the flat he banged the door shut and tossed himself on the sofa to sulk.  
He told himself he did not feel hot tears stinging behind his eyes. 

What was this? His stomach gave a clench of embarrassment. He was so excited to see John in the university quad, he followed him home and wanted nothing more than to run up to him, accosting him right there on the street. 

A little over done then, right? He chided himself. Stupid git. Why couldn’t he be more restrained? The costume, the following him, the keys he nicked form the rental office this morning. He just could not leave well enough alone. Not to mention the not sleeping at all last night just thinking about John coming back to uni. It always has to be some sort of theatrics with him. His brother was right.

When he could not get more depressed about this lack of self control there was a knock at the door.

“Whoo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson, the landlady poked her head around the door.

“There you are dear, I thought I heard you come in?” She glanced at Sherlock who was laying on his stomach on the sofa—he did not look up when she opened the door. He could not see the look of concern on her face. 

“What to talk about it, dear?” She said tentatively. 

“No Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine.” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow. 

"Well, if you change your mind, I have some nice tea and biscuits down stairs. Just knock on my door." 

She quietly closed the door. 

“I’m sure I wont.” he said into the pillow, much too quiet for her to hear. 

Maybe he just should have never gone to the flat party with Mike last year, then he would not have met John. Damn Stamford and his ‘friends’. What’s the point? People always disappoint you, anyway. John was involved when he met him, why should he think John would walk away from his life just to be with Sherlock? Why indeed. 

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

WINTER, 1983

The party was hot. Very, very hot. The air con was not on in December. The house was packed with sweaty students drinking cheap beer out of those red American party cups. Looking around only briefly, Sherlock took note of the striking black and white uniforms of the football team and realized that the entire team must be here. 

Students had a large plastic beach ball and were hitting it from one side of the flat to the other. 

Sherlock had not been to this flat or this building before, he wondered who’s it was. Sherlock had to dodge the beach ball as it flew overhead. This flat must belong to someone very popular at uni. Who could have all these friends? 

The music was blasting so loud that only the base of the song could be heard amongst the noise of the kids chatting and laughing. The walls were shaking at times.  
Mike had long ago disappeared into the bowels of the party and Sherlock was irritated. Under normal circumstances he would not find himself at such an event. 

This time, as the balloon went overhead again, Sherlock smacked it and it went sailing far into the other room, “Good one, mate!” he heard someone call out. 

There was only one reason to be here. Mike Stamford had something that Sherlock Holmes wanted. Wanted very badly. The key to the lab at Bart’s Hospital was in Mike Stamford’s pocket. Mike was working there a few hours each week as a lab assistant. Sherlock wanted into that lab to use a special microscope for just  
a few minutes. Despite Sherlock’s demands, Mike insisted on stopping by this party for a quick drink before taking him there.

Damn Mike for having a backbone. Now look where he was. 

Mike wanted to come to this party and told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that before he’d unlock the lab he was stopping by this flat. Sherlock had to relent. 

Bugger.

Where was Mike anyway? How long ago did he disappear? Could it have been an hour?

After searching each room, Sherlock found him the kitchen of the flat, talking and laughing with a group of people and he was totally arsed. Unsteady on his feet and boisterous, he greeted Sherlock loudly, like his long lost brother. “And there he is! Sherlock, Mate!”

Sherlock found his cheeks going a bit pink as everyone in the room turned to look at him. Mike clapped Sherlock on the back and then fell flat on his face.

“Mike, oh my God! Mike!” A girl shouted as a group of kids ran to his aid, Sherlock among them, crouching down to try to help him up. But to no avail, he was out. Unconscious. 

“What do we do?” Someone asked.

“Obviously, we have to get him to hospital.” Sherlock stated to no one in particular in the group. 

“How much did he drink?” Another person asked. 

“I don’t know--he just got here!” said a blonde guy, who was wearing a black and white football jersey and taking Mike’s pulse.

Mike rolled onto his back, opened his eyes and everyone gave a sigh of relief. 

“John!” Mike squinted, looking up at the blonde guy. “When did you get here?”

“I live here Mike, remember? You came to my party.” John said slowly, with a very concerned look on his face.

“No, no I don’t.” Mike was smiling and shaking his head from the kitchen floor.

John reached down and touched Mike on the shoulder. “Mike, can you sit up?”

“Maybe.” Mike said slowly, groaning. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“This is my friend, John Watson.”

“Oh, hello.” Sherlock said to John, over Mike's prone form. 

As they helped Mike to sit up, John glanced at the floor behind him and saw more than a bit of bright red blood on the white kitchen tile. “Oi, where’d the blood come from? Wait, Mike let me…” he placed a hand on the back of Mike’s head and looked at it…blood.

“Mike, did you hit the back of your head? How? But you fell forward--we all saw it.” John scowling, wondered aloud, looking back and forth to the other kids faces.

Sherlock jumped up and purposefully walked toward the one kitchen window to examine it. 

“Can you help me get him to hospital? John called to Sherlock over his shoulder.

“Yeah sure.” Came Sherlock’s distracted reply, as he opened the curtains of the kitchen window and peered at the sill.

Sherlock turned from the window and looking around on the floor, scooped something up and put it in his pocket, carefully using a pocket handkerchief to avoid touching it with his hands.

Sherlock walked back to Mike and John and they helped Mike get to his feet. 

The party had quickly taken a down note and broke up. The flat was empty. The three of them walked carefully down the steps, Mike supported by Sherlock and John on either side.

"Should we call an ambulance?" John asked once they had gotten to the street. Bart's was only one block away./p>

“No, I think we can wal—“ Sherlock started to explain that he felt Mike was steady now. 

And just then a huge explosion erupted from behind the building, glass and debris flying and knocking all three of the boys to the ground.

Thick black smoke crept in over the street. It didn’t take long for the sirens and flashing lights of police cars and ambulances to add to the chaos.

All three boys were sitting up and trying to stand when the emergency vehicles arrived on the scene.

“Oi there lads! Just keep sitting where you are.” Detective Lestrade of Scotland Yard got out of a car and ran up to them. “You boys need to be checked out by the medical team.”

Most of the party goers had cleared out well before the explosion and only the boys and a few passers by were still there.

John, Sherlock and Mike were of no help when interviewed by police. An ambulance took Mike to hospital. 

Sherlock sat next to John who was wondering why he was so flippant with the detective. “You are completely wasting our time, detective, we don’t have any information about this explosion. And why do I have this blanket on?” he said as he removed the blanket provided by the medics. 

“It’s for shock, Sherlock. You were just in an explosion. Take it off if you like.” Lestrade said, in a gentle, fatherly manner. 

"I'd call that an exaggeration." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at the detective.

“Wait--do you two know each other?” John asked, perplexed. 

"Well..." Sherlock began.

“Shall I check your pockets, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked with a smile. 

“No.” Sherlock looked at his feet, the tops of his cheeks a bit pink. 

“Go on now, you both can go. We can get a statement from you two in the morning.” Lestrade waved them both away. 

John looked forlornly up at the ruined building, shock blanket still covering his shoulders, the flashing lights reflecting off his face. The boys started to walk away from the scene, but they as yet, had no destination. 

“Um, John, I…” Sherlock began, when a long, shiny black car pulled up beside the boys.

The window rolled down with a hushed, mechanical sound. 

“Am I to assume that you are somehow responsible for this?” the solemn soft voice seemed to be directed at Sherlock. 

“Yes, I am and you are correct as always." Sherlock said sarcastically, then, "Of course not!” This time, almost shouting.<"I'm older now, I don't just go 'round blowing things up!"/p>

The man in the car paused for quite a few minutes.

“Well you, don’t look too scathed,” he began.

John feeling more and more helpless as the events of the evening unraveled before him, looked on with widened eyes. 

“I’m leaving.” Sherlock announced, turning on his heel.

The boys turned to go. Sherlock realized John still had the blanket on and grabbing it, tossed it directly into the window of the black car.

John turned to him, frowning. "Was that another policeman, Sherlock? Do you know all the policemen?"

“What? No! That....was the most annoying git you’ll ever meet. Well, that I've ever met, anyway. That….was my brother.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"In the posh black car?" John turned back to look again as the car pulled away. "Was that a Bentley?"

“Think so,” Sherlock sighed. "No matter." he said as he turned to look at John, who again had a lost and devastated look in his eyes.

"John, I, um…" Sherlock began softly, quietly, not knowing what to say but wanting to offer some kind of comfort.

"I have no place to go.” John stated matter of factly, in a very small voice. 

"Come to mine." Sherlock offered, shrugging his shoulders. 

John just looked blankly at him. Of course, they had just met this evening, John not knowing anything really about the young man standing beside him. 

“It's ok.” Sherlock continued, “There's an extra bedroom upstairs with a bed already there.”

John just looked at him. He was a friend of Stamford's, wasn't he?

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock tried again, but John had sat himself down on the kerb, head in his hands, still processing the events of the evening. 

“What?” John asked looking up at Sherlock standing beside him. 

“Hungry? -- want to get some Chinese?” Sherlock repeated.

“My wallet was in my flat.” John shook his head sadly. 

“That settles it, then. Flats don’t blow up every day. It’ll be my treat. let's go." Sherlock offered his hand and helped John up. 

Again John looked at him, burst into laughter and let Sherlock help him up off the kerb.


	6. Where I can be Your Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.--Proverb

AUTUMN, 1984 John wasted no time getting to the Baker Street flat. At just short of a run, it took about 5 minutes. 

Just as he got to the stoop, Mrs. Hudson opened the door. 

“Oh hello-“ John was surprised to see an older lady at the front door. 

“Hello dear, can I help you?” She asked with a smile. 

John was momentarily at a loss for words. Did Sherlock live here? After this morning, was he at the wrong flat? His heart sank.

“I--- I was looking for—" he felt a flush coming over his face. 

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson said, “Are you looking for Sherlock?”

John nodded. “I am.”

“He’s upstairs dear. Go right on up, then." She then gave John a conspiratorial whisper. "Doors unlocked.” 

Visibly relieved, John smiled and walked past her to the stairs. 

He got to the top of the stairs and knocked quietly on the door. “Sherlock?”

No answer, but John thought he may have heard some footsteps. The door opened and Sherlock stood there looking much improved from that morning. He had taken a shower and changed into clean clothes, covered by a dressing gown. 

“Hello John.” Sherlock opened the door and John walked in. 

“Great.” John said, smiling, “Great to see you looking so---- clean,”

The boys both laughed. Sherlock shut the door and stood in front of it. 

“...this all yours, then? It's nice.” John looked around the large front room.

“Well you know...my brother….” Sherlock gestured with his arm over the expanse of the living room. 

John turned to look at Sherlock and paused, “…..you alone?”

“No, John you are here too, there are two of us and so I am not alone.” he said, face impassive. 

John snickered. 

“Git. Well, I was hoping…..” John began, taking one big exaggerated step toward Sherlock.

Sherlock was humming with agitation, but standing stock still, arms crossed over his chest. Waiting. 

John took another step and stood right in front of him. He tried to make some small talk. “First match of the term is tomorrow.”

“And your telling me this because you know how I love football….” Sherlock looked down at the floor, arms still crossed in front of him

“No, I was hoping, maybe you’d come to see the game.” John got a little closer and touched Sherlock on the back of the hand with one finger. 

Sherlock did not answer. He looked down at John’s finger slowly moving from his hand to his wrist. Then John curved his finger a little to fit inside the cuff of Sherlock's sleeve. John took another step even closer and was now toe to toe with Sherlock. They were about a hairs breadth apart. Sherlock could hear John breathing.

Sherlock watched John's face, looked at his eyes, his lips and down to John's hand touching his.

John pulled on the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown, unloosening his arms, and bringing them down from the front of his chest. 

“Now you look less angry with me.” John said quietly, looking up at his friend. 

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders slumped a bit. He shook his head, eyes closed. “I’m not angry with you, John.”

“Right, what are you then?” John took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the sofa where the boys both sat down. 

Sherlock turned to John to answer the question, “A difficult person.”

The boys were sitting very close on the sofa. John was holding Sherlock’s right hand in his left. John shifted his weight and turned towards Sherlock.

"Well, I'm not going to argue with that--but you are impatient." And John looked right in Sherlock's eyes, leaned in and kissed him on his very soft lips.

It was at first a very slow, gentle kiss, meant to be reassuringly tender, but didn't take long for John's hands to start to wander, first to Sherlock's cheek, then down his neck over his shoulder. Luckily, the fabric belt of the dressing gown had loosened as they sat there. John continued to move his hands, slipping the dressing gown off of Sherlock's shoulders.

Then it was a very hungry kiss, a kiss that wanted to make up for the many months apart and some mixed messages this morning. It quickly became hot and needy and John lifted Sherlock's t shirt up to expose his taut flat stomach. 

John gave an inadvertent small moan against Sherlock's mouth when he felt the hard muscles of his stomach. "God! Sherlock I feel like...God I've missed you." he whispered, as they broke apart momentarily, looking at Sherlock's heavy lidded eyes. He reached up with both hands and pushed on Sherlock's chest, coaxing him with more kisses to lay back. 

Sherlock broke them apart. "Wait!" he whispered hoarsely, trying to sit up properly. 

"What?" asked John.

Sherlock looked at John with fear and apology. He looked backwards toward he door of the flat, frowning. "Mrs. Hudson, she bursts in here all the time without asking."

"I just saw her, she looked to go shopping. She had a shopping bag and pocketbook with her." John said.

Sherlock sat up and kissed John. "I have an idea." He got up, locked the door to the flat and walked back to the sofa. He reached out to take John's hand. "I do have a bedroom-- in the back."

Once there, they locked the bedroom door, "See? Two doors, no one to bother us." John gently reassured Sherlock.

As it happened, the boys had never been quite as alone as this. Sherlock had a nice big bedroom with a nice big bed. 

Anytime they were together it was quick and hurried, always in fear of someone coming in. Today they could take their time, but right now no one wanted that.


	7. Snap, Crackle and Pop

John fell asleep of course. The stress of the day and the recent physical exertion taking it's toll. When he woke, he turned to see Sherlock asleep as well. Little did John know that Sherlock didn't sleep the last two nights anticipating John's return to London. 

Sherlock was laying on his stomach, head turned toward john. With his eyes closed and face relaxed in sleep, smooth skin and rosy cheeks were almost angelic John thought. 

But John knew better. 

He gently got out of bed and walked to the bath. He turned on the hottest water he could stand to warm away the fatigue in his body.  
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WINTER, 1983 After eating Chinese, the boys walked over to the flat that Sherlock and Mike were sharing. Knackerd from the explosion and stress, John laid down on the sofa and promptly fell asleep. 

He awoke confused, finding him self on a strange sofa in a strange place. He was aware that a blanket was placed over him sometime during the night. Sitting bolt upright, and whipping his head all ‘round he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table looking into a microscope. Oh yeah right-- homeless. The explosion. 

“Good morning, John,” he heard Sherlock say. 

“Not really.” He responded, numb.

“I’m sure you have a headache. There are 2 paracetamol here on the table. And the kettles’ on.” Sherlock said.

Sherlock was right about the headache. John took the pills and sat down, laying his head against the cool surface of the table. 

“It’s very likely that we both have a bit of a concussion. But, you should know that as someone studying medicine." Sherlock looked pointedly at John. "How do you know I am studying medicine?" John looked up at him from the surface of the table. Sherlock shrugged, "You took Mike's pulse after he collapsed, no body just does that." As John looked up to respond to this, he saw that Sherlock was handling a piece of metal the size of deck of cards. As he turned it over in his hands, he held it carefully with a handkerchief. 

“What’s that?” John said from the surface of the table. 

“A piece of shrapnel. Lately of Mike Stamford’s head and your kitchen floor.” Answered Sherlock quietly, thoughtfully.

“Sorry, I’m not following you.” John got up from the table and poured a cup of tea.

“Last night, you were the one who noticed Mike was bleeding from the back of the head-again supporting someone who is training to be a medical observer. When I got up to look at the window-- it was open.” Sherlock said as he turned to look at John behind him. 

”The flat was too hot. I opened the window in the kitchen.” John said slowly, looking in the fridge, no milk. 

“Precisely. There was a smaller explosion before the larger one that took out the flat. The party being so loud, no one heard it. The smaller explosion sending this piece of shrapnel through the open window, hitting Mike in the back of the head, knocking him flat.”

“Wow, you sorted all that since last night?” John sat back down, head swimming. He didn’t realize Sherlock did not sleep. 

“Wasn’t difficult.” Sherlock looked at John, still wearing his football jersey that he wore yesterday to the party. He slept in it. And all his belongings in the world-all gone in the explosion.

“That's amazing! Absolutely amazing. But why are you holding on to that? It should be with Scotland Yard.” John was very worried that trouble would come from holding onto a piece of evidence, from a bombing, no less. 

“Don’t be daft-- I’m giving it back. I just wanted to have a few hours with it before they can muck it up.”

Sherlock said, slowly placing it on the table, getting up to search for a Plasticine bag.


	8. Departure Lounge

Sherlock gave John a good laugh--implying that he was holding onto an important piece of evidence because Scotland Yard would 'muck up' an investigation.

“Really-- Scotland Yard will muck it up?” Professional investigators and police. The best and the brightest. 

“Yes, there’s a pretty good chance.” Sherlock's cheeks were a high pink and he was very serious. 

"And why do you want to spend some time with this piece of metal?” 

"I want to figure it out."

"And Scotland yard cant." John wanted to make it clear that he understood. 

"They know they cant."

"Is that so?"

"I know it's so."

"How that?"

Sherlock spoke slowly and measured his words. “Because when they are out of their depth they consult…me.”

"A kid at university?" John found this very difficult to believe. 

“Yes. Of course, I'm not right all the time, just most of the time. I plan to return it to them today, actually---." Sherlock stopped abruptly, interrupted by a thought. He glanced at John. "Want to come with me?”

John wasn’t sure if he could believe the boy sitting across the kitchen table from him, who in the early morning light of the kitchen looked so young. Johns head was swimming with questions.

“Sherlock, just how old are you?” 

“I'm 16.” he said reluctantly, looking again into the microscope. 

John almost spat out his tea, he started to cough and choke. He was fine really and put his hand up to let Sherlock know he didn't need the Heimlich. 

“But I'll be 17 in one month!” Sherlock added, hurriedly, defensively.

“Like that makes it any better.” John spoke quietly into his cup of tea. “Sure, I’ll go to Scotland Yard.” 

John felt he really needed to see this. “But explain to me how you are 16 and in your third year of uni.”

Sherlock was standing up near the table by this time. He looked at John darkly and sighed. "Well, as it turns out...my first year at uni, I...I had a few of the professors taken out."

"'Taken out'? Meaning--killed?" Ludicrous, thought john. 

"Oh no! Removed, actually--just removed, But quite on accident, of course. Inadvertent. Unintentional and unfortunate." Sherlock was very very serious. 

John was certain there was more to this story.

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AUTUMN, 1981

UNIVERSITY OFFICE OF THE VICE-PROVOST

STUDENT MEDIATOR AND ACADEMIC ADVISORY OFFICE 

The offices of the Head of Sciences Department were warm and inviting. No one should be intimidated by the dark wood paneling and soft posh rugs. When coming in to discuss a problem or job issue, anyone would feel welcome.

"Professor, do you understand why I’ve asked you to come to my office for this discussion?" The Head of Sciences Department sat behind a large wooden desk filled with photos of his family, who had traveled the world. Small children in snow suits and ski boots. Smiling family group from the Great Wall. 

"Yes sir." The professor felt very nervous, and his voice was small. 

"It has come to my attention that you filled out a request form to have one of your students transferred out of your class?" 

"Yes sir." He answered from a hard chair in front of the large desk.

"Can you tell me a little bit about what is going on?" The Department Head leaned forward. 

"Well sir, I feel it is in my best interest to not have that young man in my class." The professor felt he needed to find his voice and be clear about the problem, even if it was one that he had never encountered in his 20+ years of teaching. 

"Right, you’ll have to explain yourself, please." The Department Head hoped this did not take long, it was almost lunch. 

"Well he sits in the front row..." The Professors voice was shaking. 

"And..." 

The professor cleared his throat. "....looks at me."

The Head of the Department wanted to be kind. "I think it quite understandable to have a student look at the professor. In fact, we insist up on it."

"Is there more, professor?" 

"Well, he--he has written a few papers…”

“That are inadequate?” Maybe his secretary should have fielded this one.

“Oh no, no, sir. They---they… completely eclipse my knowledge of the subject matter. I--I find that I am unable to grade them. They are written with such depth and breadth of understanding that I…” he trailed off. 

“Are you saying that they are plagiarized?” Now this he could sink his teeth into. Completely against university policy. Clear cut rules, if broken, had clear cut consequences. 

“No sir.” Lunch was looking doubtful. 

“I was uncertain, so I asked him to my office after class to explain. He had done his own research sir. Of course, I was doubtful, and I couldn’t imagine where he had gotten the reagents or the equipment—or the time, even-- in order to undertake such an endeavor. He explained himself quite thoroughly, sir. And the complete statistics as well. So of course, I asked to see his notes….” he trailed off again.

“And?” The story was getting long. 

“He said he didn’t have any, sir.” The professor shrugged. 

“Please continue.” Maybe he could cancel the 1pm appointment and have a later lunch.

“He asked for a piece of paper and proceeded write an account of all the experiments, numbers-- results so complete that I had to ask him to stop because I had seen enough.”

The head of the department paused, unable to add any comments. 

“So, I want to make it very clear that am uncomfortable with him in my class. I...I find that I’m unable to speak in front of him anymore, I’m sorry sir, I’m just not up to the task.”

“It's either him or I sir." The professor stood, his story over. 

The Head of the Sciences Department thanked the professor for coming and explained that they'd be in touch.


	9. The Truth

WINTER, 1983

Walking along with Sherlock to the Yard, John heard one unbelievable story after another from the young man walking next to him. Left secondary school early, now at uni, he was allowed to do what sounded like what ever he wanted, as long as he produced quality research. He did have an adviser he met with regularly, to keep tabs. He explained to John he would likely be taking another degree and stay longer at uni. Why not? John thought, What kind of job could he get at 16?

The meeting at the Yard was extraordinary also. Sherlock was on first name basis with many of the detectives, when he could remember their names.  
John sat while Sherlock and Lestrade stood, facing each other and had a heated discussion of why Sherlock had kept the piece of shrapnel for an extra 12 hours. Lestrade backed off and quieted down when Sherlock gave compelling information of how a subtle bend in the metal indicated it was from a common kitchen appliance turned into a makeshift incendiary device strong enough to take a building down. Lestrade took the item from Sherlock and sent it along to the bomb squad. 

Still, Lestrade made Sherlock promise not to hold onto any more pieces of evidence in the future. 

'In the future', John thought. Just how long does this detective from Scotland Yard anticipate working with this teenager? John had not ever met a more extraordinary person. There must not be anyone else at university like Sherlock. 

When the boys got back to the flat, they had a visitor. Opening the door, they saw a large amount of packages filling the flat. Who had been there while they were out? The kitchen was full of food in take out boxes and bags of groceries. In the sitting room was an impeccably dressed young man who stood up as they entered. John wondered how he had gotten in. Especially with all those packages. 

"Mycroft." Sherlock was not at all surprised to see the visitor and he was not at all in awe of the packages. Not as much as John was.

"Hello, brother mine, will you introduce me to you new friend?" he said extending his hand cordially to John.

"John, this is my brother Mycroft." Sherlock said rolling his eyes and reaching into a take away bag and removing a Chinese take away box. 

"Hello John, nice to meet you. I must say that I was so relieved that Sherlock's name didn't make it into the papers this time, that I had to come over with food for you boys."

'This time?' John wondered, reaching himself into the take away bags.

"Get on with it, Mycroft, what do you really want?" Sherlock sat sideways in a sitting room chair, his back against he one arm and his legs draped over the other, gracefully eating with chopsticks. 

"No really, when I realized that you had no food in this flat and that you not only were recovering from a concussion yourself, but also working with the investigators in order to identify the cause of the explosion, I felt I had to 'chip in', as it were."

"Humanitarian, you." Sherlock said, mouth full of lo mein.

"I also took the liberty of calling John's parents to let the, know that their son was unharmed in the explosion." 

"Oh god!! my parents!!" John jumped up. "I totally forgot to call them!" he looked panicked.

"Yes John, it would be the thing to do, when you get the chance. When I called, I identified myself as a 'university administrator' and informed them that you were perfectly fine. but I'm sure they'd love to hear your voice." 

John looked at Sherlock, who was chuckling quietly under his breath. 

"Are you a university administrator?" John asked Mycroft.

"Well, no." Mycroft explained, starting to walk towards the door to leave. 

"I'd say not." Sherlock snickered into his lo mein.


	10. Third Rail

Winter, 1983 John moved in with Sherlock and Mike. Mike got out of hospital and was on the mend quickly. John slowly replaced all of his books and clothes that were destroyed in the explosion. For the first few weeks, the phone at the flat rang off the hook, much to the dismay of Sherlock, who after a very short while, refused to answer. Friends called, professors called, the football team called, girls called. Everyone wanted to talk to John and Mike about what happened. 

Students dropped over unannounced to talk, excited to hear all the details of the 3 boys daring escape just before the explosion. Mary, Molly and Sarah came over a few times to see them. Mary always found a way to sit next to John. Sarah had dated John last year, but they were still on good terms. They all had very lively conversations with loads of laughter.

While Mike and John regaled the girls with the story of the daring escape, Molly kept trying to steal a look at Sherlock without anyone noticing. He was in the kitchen, staring into his microscope. Molly was smiling and nodding but found it difficult to follow the questions that Mary was asking. As she sat there, Molly started to sweat, trying to think of a way to get Sherlock into the conversation so she should talk to him. 

Finally, she got the courage to get up off the sofa and walk towards the kitchen. Just then Sherlock got up, having had quite enough of flirting girls in his flat. Sherlock said, “Pardon me, Molly,” quietly under his breath as he walked past her towards the back of the flat. Molly gave a little weak smile and her shoulders slumped. Sherlock walked briskly back to his bedroom and closed the door. 

No one but Mike saw what happened, “Don’t be disappointed, Molly, he’s always like that. He just doesn’t like to socialize.”

“Sometimes he talks a lot,” she said, turning to speak to Mike. A few minutes later, they heard the soft strains of Sherlock's violin through the door of his bedroom. 

Eventually, John and Mary started officially dating. Mary often popped over to the flat a few times each week and they often went out on Fridays. 

Everyone thought that John and Mary made a cute couple. Weeks flew by and one Friday night after their date, John didn’t come back to the flat. Mike fully expected this. Mike watched them and could tell that they got on very well and maybe things would get more serious between them. 

What Mike didn’t fully expect was that Sherlock didn’t come home that night either. 

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John came in at about 10 am on Saturday morning. He was feeling much better after his concussion and was hoping to start to practice again with the football team that morning. With a spring in his step, he walked into the flat and found Mike at the kitchen table drinking tea. 

"Mike, great to see you." John was smiling ear to ear. 

"Hello John, think you'll have time to make it to football practice this morning?" Mike asked cheerfully. 

"I hope so--" John started and then the flat door opened with such force, it slammed into the opposite wall. The boys jumped and turned toward the door.

And there stood Sherlock in the doorway, slightly unsteady on his feet, coat just hanging around his shoulders, but not quite on his body. "Hello," he said smiling, "Well, I guess I'm at the right place. I think I recognize you two." He pointed at them.

John and Mike both looked each other with unguarded surprise and concern. This was a surprise. Mike knew where John was last night, but no one knew where Sherlock had been. Had he been out all night? By the looks of it, that's just what happened. 

"Oh, don't give me that look," Sherlock said with a sneer, slightly irritated. "I can take care of myself. I actually do it all the time." And he walked past them, down the hall way to his bedroom, dragging his arm along the wall as he went. He slammed his bedroom door. 

"Mike, has he ever done this before?" John asked.

"Well, not quite like this, no. "

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There were no more sounds coming from Sherlock’s room. Mike did not provide John with any details of Sherlock's past nighttime excursions. John sat there, his mind reeling with questions that he was afraid to ask. 

“Well, I’m off,” Mike sighed, putting down his tea mug. 

“Just like that-- you’re going?” John asked, gesturing towards Sherlock’s closed door. 

“John, I have a shift at the lab today. I can’t just cancel. You can stay if you want to babysit. Sorry.” Mike shrugged, put on a coat and left. 

John signed and sat quietly at the table thinking about football practice until he heard Sherlock’s door open. If Sherlock was awake and ok, maybe John could still make it to football today.

Listening quietly, he heard Sherlock walk into the loo and retch into the toilet. He let it go on for a minute or two, then got up to check. 

Standing in the doorway of the loo, he saw Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bath tub, unbuttoning his shirt. John peeked in. “Hey,” he ventured.

Sherlock stood up, wavering on his feet eyes half closed. He had gotten most of his shirt off, but the right sleeve cuff was still buttoned and the shirt, at this point, was inside out and laying half on the floor. 

There was a large cold, hard lump in Johns’ stomach that he recognized as dread. He knew exactly how his day was going to go now. He would be reliving the times he spent taking care of Harry, making sure she didn’t choke or stop breathing after a night out with friends. 

Sherlock didn’t answer him. John stepped tentatively into the loo and touched him on the arm. “Sherlock, let me get you to your room.”

Sherlock looked at John with a surprised, softer look, “ok” he said, quietly, blinking.

John led him down the hallway and into the room and he fell onto the bed face down, shirt sleeve still buttoned, shirt trailing on the floor. John reached to pick the shirt up and unbutton it from Sherlock’s wrist. He tossed it over a chair and went to get a bucket. Placing the bucket at the side of the bed near Sherlock's head, he felt his wrist to check his radial pulse. It was rapid and bounding. He made some quick mental calculations--suspicious that alcohol was not the only thing Sherlock had consumed the night before. Sure, he could be dehydrated from drinking, but John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock could possibly have some exotic pastimes. 

“Sherlock, I’m placing a bucket here-- on the floor near your head. If you have to vomit, please vomit in here. Can you hear me?” 

“No,” came the reply.

John gave a small laugh. “Can you tell me where the hell you were last night?? and--what you took. Were you drinking?”

“I was out and it’s none of your business.” Came the mumbled reply.

John had never seen him like this and did not get any suspicion from Mike that Sherlock went out at all. John had not seen him drink. 

“Your'e underage.”

“So, what?”

“Do I need to call your brother?”

“I’ll break every bone your body if you do.” John laughed and walked out of the room. With football out of the question now, John was determined to check on his flatmate every so often today until he was fully conscious. He decided not to call Mycroft. He didn’t know his number anyway.

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p>Sherlock woke with a clanging headache. The clock on his nightstand read that it was 3:30 pm. Saturday after noon he wondered? He hoped it wasn’t Sunday.

The door to his room creaked open slightly. John popped his head in. “Oh, there you are. How do you feel? I have 2 paracetamol and tea, if you’re up for it.”

Sherlock took the offered pills and hot tea and was very thankful.


	11. Heaven Knows

<  
LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1984  
John got out of the hot bath and walked back into Sherlock’s bedroom, drying himself off with a flannel. Sherlock was awake. John didn’t have a change of clothes with him, he sat on the edge of the bed and started putting on his pants and socks from earlier today.

"Hey," John said, reaching out to tousle Sherlock’s unruly hair, “I’m about to go back to my flat, I never did unpack.” He said chuckling.

“Stay with me.” Sherlock said, very quietly, still laying on his stomach, arms holding onto the pillow. His arm was in front of his face and he was practically talking into this bicep, John could just see his eyes.

John crawled slowly up to the top of the bed and sat with his back against the headboard and sighed. It would be great to stay with Sherlock. Just the two of them, all day, every day. It was so hard to walk away--he was wrapped around Sherlock’s little finger. 

And why couldn’t John stay? Because if he stayed he’d never leave. Because what he wanted and what he needed were two different things.

John reached over with his left arm and touched Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock reached over and wrapped his arms around John’s waist as he lay there, burying his face into John’s side. 

“Sherlock, there are just things I need to do. Unpack. Say hi to my flat mates--which I didn’t because I rushed here to see you. Find out when and where football is tomorrow. Christ-I should call my mum and let her know I arrived at school ok. Let’s come up with a plan for after I get some things done, ok?"

Sherlock mumbled into John’s side, John was not sure what he said, but hoped it was affirmative.  
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	12. Wrong Side of the Moon

WINTER, 1983

John's new relationship with Mary was going well. She was such a ball of fire. For a nursing student, she hung out with loads of studious but hard drinking students. Mary introduce him to Irene, Janeen and Jim. They were out every weekend (and a few week nights too.) John found it difficult to keep up the pace--not with classes and football too. John never minded a few beers, but tried to shy away from drinking too much, because of Harry. John wanted to have fun and relax but was afraid to lose control. He was afraid if he drank too much, he would be doomed to be an alcoholic like his sister.  
John loved to socialize, some thing he knew Sherlock was not necessarily interested in. He met loads of people through Mary and was invited to loads of parties. John was having the time of his life. They went out to dinner in a large group, they went dancing, to pubs and clubs. And Sherlock? John was not quite sure where he spent his free time. 

John was reluctant to press Sherlock for information about his night out. He let the subject drop but kept his eyes and ears open. After all, it was his life, John reckoned. He did well otherwise, and didn’t seem to keep late hours, as a rule. Still, John was uneasy. When the weekends came, he would get nervous--Sherlock would just walk out of the flat, not a word said to anybody. Sherlock never came home as late as the first night, nor in such a state as before, but often his eyes were glazed over, pupils small and he would not talk at all, even when questioned. He went straight to bed. 

John couldn’t shake the worry that Sherlock was somehow involved in something that he shouldn’t. But John had no proof. He chided himself for worrying. He tried to convince himself that Sherlock was an adult, but of course Sherlock wasn’t an adult at all. 

John almost ventured to call Mycroft twice, but what would be say? "Hi Mycroft, I'm not sure you remember me, but um..it's John Watson and...I live with your bother and…sometimes he just disappears, and well, yeah... he comes back, but um…" not sure how that’d go over. 

If John got home before Sherlock, he’d pace the floor until his flat mate got home. If he was out with Mary, he kept checking his watch and would occasionally excuse himself and use the red telephone box outside to call the flat to check. Both Mary and Mike noticed. Other people noticed, too.

On a particularly cold night, John slipped away from Mary to ring the flat, if Sherlock answered, John could just hang up, but he never did. Mary got a glimpse of John coming in the front door of the pub, eyes watery and nose red from the cold. "John were you outside? You’re freezing! Whatever were you doing?"

John laughed and rubbed his cold, blue hands together for warmth. "Right, I just needed to go out and get a breath of fresh air. It's just too stuffy in here." John couldn’t relax. He didn’t know why and he didn’t have anyone he could confide in. 

It was end of term, everyone would be going home tomorrow for break, there were parties all over the university. John was out with Mary and her crowd. It got late and they went to another late night pub, it was dark and John insisted that this was his last beer, he wanted to go, Mary didn’t seem to want to leave. They were in the back in a quiet booth sitting with Irene and Jim--whom he had taken a dislike to.

“Come on, Johnny boy! You can’t be an old man tonight!! You don’t want to go home now! Even Mary wants to stay up! What say you all come back to mine and we can party until dawn!” Jim offered, eyes wild with plans for more fun.

Mary wrapped her hand around John's arm and looked pleadingly into his eyes. She wanted him to say yes. 

“Really Mary, I like to have fun just as much as anyone but I’m knackered. I need to get up and get the train for home early tomorrow.” John didn't want to sound like an old man, but he didn't want to miss his train, either. 

Mary pouted. 

"Well, you know John, I have just the thing that fights fatigue." Jim pushed a tiny white envelope towards John on the table. 

Mary looked from the tiny envelope back to John, eyes wide. 

And there it sat, no bigger than a postage stamp. A tiny origami envelope, likely folded out of a corner of a glossy fashion magazine. 

John knew exactly what it held.


	13. Rough Ride

WINTER, 1983

John sat there deliberating. How was he going to get out of this? Gracefully. ‘Just say no’ and all that. He looked down into this beer, the small bubbles in the foam had disappeared and there was not much beer left in the glass. John could polish it off with one big gulp, of course, but he was stalling for time.

The last thing John wanted was to spend anther minute with Jim Moriarty, no matter how Mary felt abut him. He wasn’t funny, he wasn’t nice and as a matter of fact, John felt there was something a bit ‘off’ about him. John did not trust him. 

Irene had left a good ten minutes before and John ached to leave, too.

As John lifted his glass to his lips, the door of the pub opened with a gust, and there in the doorway stood Sherlock. He was alone. 

There were not many people left in the pub, it was late. No one noticed him come in--at first. No one looked towards the door, except John, who sat there gaping. 

Oh, and Mary, who followed John’s eyes to the door.

“John, isn’t that your flatmate?” Mary asked.

Jim looked now, too.

“Excuse me folks, this just became my lucky day.” Jim said as he looked toward the door. He gave them a greasy smile and scooped up the tiny envelope. He slid out of the booth and made a quick beeline for Sherlock at the front of the pub.

John could not tear his eyes away. His throat was dry. What could Jim want with Sherlock? Jim walked right up to him and started a conversation. They were talking. Did they know each other? John could only see the back of Jim’s head. He could see Sherlock’s face, but he wasn’t speaking now, and his face was impassive. 

Then Jim turned a bit and reached up to touch Sherlock on the shoulder. John’s heart was hammering in his ears, he couldn't hear anything but a dull roar. 

“John--“ Mary began, slightly louder. 

“John!” Mary practically shouted, touching his cheek, turning John’s face towards her own.

“Sorry, what?” John blinked. When did Mary start talking? 

“I was asking you a question, John. What’s got into you?” Mary crinkled her forehead in confusion.

“Oh sorry-- what was it?” John found it difficult to turn his head away from the front of the pub and towards Mary.

“I said--Isn’t that your flatmate?” Mary asked again. 

“Yeah… yeah, that’s Sherlock. Excuse me, Mary. I have to see about something…..” John jumped up and started purposefully towards the front of the pub. John disliked Jim so intensely that he was certain that this could not be good. 

The front of the pub seemed so far away. He had to go up there and make sure-- John slowed his pace---- he wasn’t sure what he was making sure about. He tried to take some deep breaths and slowed his pace even more. 

He had to side step a few small groups as he walked. He could still see Jim having an animated conversation with Sherlock and Sherlock listening intently. From his vantage point, he saw Jim’s right hand actually reach into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock did not react, but was listening seriously. 

Oh, John wished he could hear what was being said! John wondered if Jim placed something in Sherlock’s pocket. 

John came up behind Jim. He was hoping he could make out some of the conversation. John strained to hear, Jim’s voice was quiet and the pub was still loud, even this late.  
Jim patted the pocket of Sherlock’s coat, as if to settle what he had placed. And then it hit John like a bolt. The small paper envelope. Sherlock out all night, coming in at all hours. Wasted, quiet, distant—eyes glazed over. 

John became very hot. He could feel the flush starting at the edge of his neck right under his collar. He started to sweat. 

He barreled toward Jim. When he got there, he tapped Jim on the shoulder and when he turned towards him-- he belted him right in the jaw. 

Jim saw stars and hit the pub floor with a thud. Flat on his back, dazed but not unconscious.

Mary flew to John’s side. Sherlock looked at John with stunned amazement. 

“Hello John.” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?” John hissed in a fury. 

“I could ask you the same.” Sherlock said calmly, but his eyes were wide, looking down at Jim on the pub floor. 

Mary, at John’s side, was shrill and gaping. “John! Whatever are you doing?” she crouched down and bent over Jim. “Jim, Jim are you alright? I’m so, so sorry. I have no idea what came over John--you better have a good reason for this!! Although I can’t imagine why!”

“Mary, not now, please.” John was shaking his hand and wincing. “No! it’s Jim that’d better have a good reason for his actions.” John was pointing at Jim and practically shaking.

The pub was quiet now, all eyes turned toward their small group, right at the front door, putting on quite a show. 

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out the door. 

John went after him, throwing up his hands. 

Jim was now sitting on the floor, rubbing his jaw and laughing, his mouth a sneer. “No, it’s ok Mary, I’m fine. I guess chivalry is not dead.”

“What are you taking about?” Mary asked, incredulous. 

Jim laughed. “Nothing. I doubt John will be back, I’ll walk you home.” Jim got up, dusted himself off and he and Mary walked out the door into the cold December air.


	14. Tempted

WINTER 1983 Sherlock ran back to the flat. He knew that John would be steady on his heels. He ran at a fast clip, shoes slipping a bit in the light snow that had just fallen. His heart was beating wildly. His chest burned from all the exertion. He had gone into the pub for a pint, which was not his usual habit, but he knew it would not be as crowded. He knew the bar tender and getting a pint would not be a problem. 

He knew he was taking a chance that he’d run into Jim Moriarty-he was often out late- and that didn’t bother him. 

He did not expect to see John Watson. 

Confronted. 

He did not expect to be confronted by John Watson. 

Sherlock was fully aware that John had some concerns about his behavior. He just did not care. John was not responsible for him in any way. Sherlock could take care of himself. 

He didn’t even need his own brother. 

That fact that John thought of himself as some kind of caretaker or rescuer—well, that was his problem, not Sherlock’s. He didn’t need cared for or rescued. 

Sherlock slowed down, lungs on fire. He could probably take the next block as a walk. John likely went home with Mary and they could just have it out in the morning. Or even better yet, in a few more blocks, Sherlock could take the tube to Mycroft’s. School was over for the term. 

Half a block more and then he saw him. 

John, sitting on the stoop in front of their building.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

John yelled out and stood up. “Don’t you dare run again, Sherlock, I will come after you and I’m not afraid to tear into you, either.” 

Sherlock stopped. He slowed his pace and walked toward John.

“How’d you get here so fast?” Asked Sherlock.

“I ducked down a side street and came up behind the building. How’s it feel to be outsmarted?” John was not smiling.

But Sherlock was. “Git.” he said.

They walked up the stairs in silence. John opened the door. No Mike yet, still out maybe or at his new girlfriend’s flat. 

John cleared his throat, “Sherlock you may not feel like you have any responsibility to your flatmates and I guess you have a point, but you are only 16 and I…”

“I’ll be 17 in exactly 3 weeks.” Sherlock interrupted, taking his coat off and tossing it over a chair. 

“I’m not sure that makes any difference if you plan on self-destruction.”

Sherlock laughed, John was not laughing.

“I’d like you to give me the cocaine.” John walked over, stood in front of Sherlock and put out his hand, palm up. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Sherlock stood intentionally in front of his coat, arms crossed in front of him.

“Sherlock I’m not stupid…” John sighed.

“I never said you were.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, serious. 

“Yeah, but you think everyone else is.”

“Well… they are. Maybe you…you are different.” Sherlock’s words were measured, quiet, slow. 

John took a step closer to Sherlock, “Will you give it to me?”

“What?” Sherlock's eyes were blank and cloudy, not giving anything away. He should’ve been an actor, thought John.

“This is getting old. I know he had it. He showed it to me. I know he put it in your pocket. I was there, Sherlock, I have eyes.”

Sherlock smiled, “And a bloody good left hook too, Mr. Watson! And there goes Jim Moriarty down like a stone!” Sherlock now sat down on his coat, crossing his legs, as well as his arms. 

“If you could stop being a bloody wanker, Sherlock, just for once.”

“Make me.”

This time John laughed. “Sherlock, I’ve got about 2 stone on you. Believe me, you don’t want to fight me.”

“I’ve been taking martial arts for years.” Countered Sherlock.

“Yeah, but I’m meaner.” Said John, diving for the coat. 

Sherlock stood and turned quickly to grab the coat at the same time, dodging John’s arms as he made to reach for it. 

He turned quickly, getting away from John as he twisted, and they both ran, coat between them but got only a few steps before they tumbled over each other’s legs and feet and crashed into the coffee table, smashing it into pieces. 

Sherlock was on the floor on top of the shattered remains of the coffee table, large wooden splinters everywhere. Their arms were tangled in the coat, each of them still having a good piece of it. John still tugging as Sherlock couldn’t hold onto it any longer and dissolved into laughter. 

John looked at his flatmate in almost horror as he was laughing quite uncontrollably on the floor. Sherlock on the floor, John on top of him and the coat in between. 

“John, John! Stop! Stop it! Ok, ok!! I’ll give you the bloody coke!!-- if you just-- stop! Please, you’ve made your point. It’s ok.” Sherlock cheeks were quite pink from laughing so hard. 

But John wasn't laughing. He looked down at Sherlock and they both got quiet. Just breathing, just looking at each other. 

Sherlock reached up and touched the side of John's face, just inches from his own. John breathing above him, quiet, still. John looking at him. His breath smelling a little like alcohol, but Sherlock knew his did, too. And then he took the side of his thumb and gently traced John’s lower lip. The air in the room was heavy and quiet. Sherlock realized he was holding his breath. 

John closed his eyes and leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the lips, that were so soft and warm and didn’t seem the least resistant. 

John broke away, not wanting to. He was flushed and shaking his head above Sherlock. John looked at Sherlock pleadingly, eyes wide and then squeezed shut, then wide again, “Oh, Sherlock, I…I…”

“Shhhh, no, it’s ok, it’s ok, John, please.” Sherlock said breathless, reaching up for John again with his hand, caressing John’s cheek and lifting his head to reach John’s mouth with his own. Again. Tender, hungry. 

“Oh my god, it’s ok, it’s more than ok.” Sherlock whispered, kissing John, looking John directly in his heavy lidded eyes. He half sat up amid the pile of rubble that they were laying in, not wanting it to stop, and wanting to prove to John that it was indeed, ok. 

Sherlock touched the back of John’s neck, gently pulling him closer, and then kissed him. Sherlock turned his head to the side a bit, opening his mouth a bit more, eagerly wanting to make it as easy as possible for John to kiss him, to touch as much of John's soft wet lips as he could reach with his own.

Laying in pile of ruble with John on top of him, he never wanted to leave. Sherlock thought it couldn't get any hotter. 

He caught John’s lower lip in his teeth, tugging gently, wanting more, sucking on John's bottom lip. Sherlock wanted to tease and encourage John. He wanted to promise John more. 

John opened his mouth to suck on Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock slid his tongue into John's mouth, holding the back of his head with his left hand, more desperate to touch John's soft hot tongue with his own. Sherlock could feel his whole body catch fire and his right hand started to wander down John's back, finding the waist of his blue jeans. With Johns leg in between his own, he arched his back involuntarily trying to get more contact. 

John gave a small involuntary moan. “Please don’t stop.” Sherlock whispered.

The coat and the cocaine were soon forgotten.


	15. The Waiting Game

John was lucky he heard the key in the lock. Luckily, it was a loud metal mechanism, that caused the wooden door to creak and stick and resist as it was opened. 

It gave him time to jump up from the floor, but just. All the beer from a few hours ago did not help one bit. 

“Bloody hell...” He hissed under his breath and quickly got to his feet. 

Just in time as Mike opened the door to the flat. 

Mike walked in with a big smile on his face, eyes bright. He looked at the completely annihilated sitting room, furniture turned over and pieces of broken wooden coffee table everywhere. 

“Oi, what happened here?” Mike asked, incredulously. 

John had his back to the door, standing over Sherlock. 

John took a big breath, turned to Mike and sighed…”Right… well, Sherlock and I had a bit of a row. And…” he left it there, waving a hand at the splinted mess. 

“I’ll say you did!” Mike said chuckling, lightening the mood, the danger passed. 

“And by all means, we’ll clean up the mess.” Sherlock spoke calmly from the floor, still laying on his back, coat covering his waist and part of one leg. 

“I’d say you’d gotten the worst of it Sherlock!!” Mike observed. “Right then, ‘night.” Mike said as he walked by shrugging, and barely gave them a glance and went straight to his room and closed his door. 

John raised his finger to his lips, in an effort to keep Sherlock quiet until he was sure that Mike wasn’t coming out again from the bedroom. 

John and Sherlock just stared at each other for a few minutes, waiting, holding a collective breath. Then the boys erupted in laughter for several minutes, faces red. 

Quickly and gracefully, Sherlock jumped up from the floor and tossed his coat on the sofa. 

John took a step back from him and turned away, head down. “Sherlock, I…” John began.

Sherlock took a step toward John. “John…”

John put a hand up and gave a sheepish look, face flushed. “This is a bit fast, I think.”

“I don’t.” Sherlock's face was clouded, serious. 

John laughed. He could feel a pounding headache starting. “I’m…going…to need some time. I…I think. It’s not you. I don’t even know what’s going on in my head anymore. Sherlock really, I don’t know about you, but this is all new to me.”

“Everything’s new to me--I’m 16.” Sherlock sat down on the sofa. 

“Yes, and that’s just it! That does not help!!” Had Mike not been in the other room, this would have been a shout.

“John--your only about 1 ½ years older than me, you’re a kid too, really.”

“I’m going to my room,,,” John turned and looked at Sherlock, pointedly, “Alone. I mean it. Alone. I need some time to sort myself. And just to think.”

John walked back to his room and Sherlock followed right on his heels. John turned around, “Please, please don’t, no I mean it--don’t.” he practically all but whispered.

John stopped at the door, going no further, his back pressed up against it. 

Sherlock stood directly in front of him. He looked pretty disheveled. Shirt pulled out from his trousers, halfway unbuttoned, face flushed and sweaty. John looked at his beautiful white throat and his mouth got dry again and he felt flushed. 

“Last chance--I’m happy to come in.” Sherlock laughed, “It’s ok, John really.” John sighed, cheeks pink. Sherlock leaned against the door frame with his left hand and reached up to touch John's arm and squeezed Johns left bicep with his right hand. He could feel John's hard muscled bicep through the thin material of his new football jersey.

Sherlock looked down at John, serious, “I’ll leave tomorrow morning early. I was going to leave tonight but something told me not to. I’m glad I stayed, John. Very glad. And I don’t expect anything really, if… if you think this is not a good idea. It’s ok.”

John looked at the floor. 

“But, if it’s alright with you, I would like to kiss you one more time before I leave on holiday. Just once more.”

John did not say anything. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes and then down at his lips. He didn’t say no. He didn’t move away.

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him and they stood there for a few minutes, against the door of John's room, both forgetting that Stamford could come out for a glass of water or to use the loo. 

John broke them apart. Sherlock did so with great reluctance, resting his forehead against John's.

“Please, Sherlock, please go to bed--- “ John pleaded, voice weak, "--your own bed, too…because if you don’t, and right now, too, then I’m sure I'll invite you in.” he said in a whisper. “And…and I shouldn’t.” just…not tonight, please just give me the holiday to sort it out….”

John cleared his throat and spoke quietly, “It would be best if you could just back away just a bit, please for me, I… I can’t, this is just way too much for me to process right now.”

Sherlock felt bad, but only a little. He backed off. Still smiling despite his disappointment, he whispered, “Good night, John Watson.”

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````  
Sherlock was laying in his bed watching the shadows play on the walls of his bedroom. He would not sleep tonight. Not after what happened in the sitting room. John Watson, calm, intelligent John, had set his imagination on fire. Not to mention his lips. He put his finger to his lips and couldn’t believe John’s lips had just been there. 

Just there.

He could hear the floor boards in the next room creaking and he knew this was John--pacing. The floors creaked approximately every 12.5 seconds--indicating John was arguing with himself and walking back and forth in the room. 

Sherlock was shocked and elated, this was the best turn of events so far. John Watson—a man of surprises. As much as Sherlock liked John as a flatmate, Sherlock had never allowed himself to really 'like' anyone. And this was fine--the dawning of something new.

But. 

Sherlock imagined that this was a one-time thing, heat of the moment-maybe and as nice as Sherlock thought it was, he imagined that John would not let it continue. Johns romantic reputation had preceded him. Sherlock was quite aware of John’s reputation with the girls at uni; he heard what other students said. John Watson, football player and a bit of a lady’s man, had dated girls from all of the 3 residence halls on campus, as well as girls who lived off campus, too. 

Few broken hearts there too, Sherlock imagined. 

John, he thought, had a reputation to uphold. And there was Mary, of course, his current girlfriend. So Sherlock was pretty certain that tonight’s behavior was a one off for John and would not be repeated. Blame it on alcohol, blame it on the physical proximity—he would not hold John to anything. 

Better this way, Sherlock, don’t get attached. 

Sherlock waited until he was sure that John had ceased his infernal pacing and had gone to bed. He waited an additional 30 minutes more until he was pretty certain John would be asleep. Sherlock got out of bed. He had something to do.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

John paced the floor, agitated. His brain was on fire. John could not believe he belted Jim Moriarty in a pub in front of loads of people. He left Mary in the pub to chase after his flatmate all through the snowy streets of university.

And then…Sherlock…John buried his face in his hands. 

The state of the sitting room! Broken furniture everywhere. John passed his hands through his hair. 

This was the worst night he ever had at uni! The worst. 

John put his head in his hands. Oh,,,Sherlock… 

John could not think about Sherlock without the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. 

Sherlock…John got a chill down his back. He had to get to sleep. This would not do. Sleep would make this right. In the morning he could sort it out. Sort himself out. 

His back and legs were aching. He briefly thought about going to get 2 paracetamol, but he didn’t want again to look at the broken furniture in the sitting room and come face to face with the material evidence of his wild behavior. 

The proof. The proof that he and Sherlock….

Were…

Snogging on the floor. 

And he—John Watson--had started it.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

In the morning John woke to find the flat empty and quiet. Sherlock was gone, Stamford too. Stamford left him a note thanking him for cleaning up the wrecked sitting room. John looked around--the sitting room was perfect--although it didn’t have a coffee table. The remains-the splinters and broken pieces were gone. All of it. 

Sherlock. 

The phone rang, John shuffled over to answer it, head thumping. Cheers, it was Mary. 

His girlfriend was irate about last night, his ‘violent’ behavior and the fact that he ran out of the pub, leaving her. 

He left Mary. 

John was very quiet on his end of the phone. He had no justification for his actions. He had no words to explain himself. 

He left Mary to chase after Sherlock.

Luckily, Mary continued, Jim was there to escort her home. Well, she had him there. Except for the lucky part. 

Jim. John had to admit, he didn’t know Jim very well. The people he hung out with were known to be the well-traveled, well-heeled posh types. People John did not know. John had heard a few rumors about drugs, but he was not certain that they weren’t just rumors, until last night. 

He left Mary for Sherlock.

John was having a very difficult time concentrating on Mary’s words. He was vaguely nauseated, too. He sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head on the cool table top. 

“John are you there??” Mary asked. 

John managed a weak “Yes, Mary.” 

She told John she wanted to take break from the relationship. That she was going to ‘think about things’ while on break and then they could see ‘how it goes’ when they got back to school. 

Take a break. 

Right now, John couldn’t agree more.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

It takes 36 minutes from London to Chelmsford on any given day. John found an empty seat and fell asleep as soon as he sat down. He woke with a start at the Chelmsford railway station. He was home.

Harry picked him up at the station. 

“John!” She shouted running up to him. “Alright? You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night, mums gonna’ worry----you look like shite!” She laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. 

John was quiet on the ride home. He just sat there, looking out the window, managing his nausea, feeling his life was all to pot.

“So….how’s uni?” asked Harry, making polite conversation. Her turn next year.

John turned to her, clearing his throat, “Fine yeah, fine.” He looked out the window again, drifting.

“And…how’s your girlfriend?” 

“Sorry”? John had been lost in thought and missed the question.

“Your girlfriend…. what’s her name again?”

“Um…Oh…Mary?”

“John, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting weird, well weird for you anyway…” Harry rolled her eyes and laughed.

“I’m fine. You know, just knackered.”

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````  
John got a letter from Sherlock over break. He didn’t remember giving him his address though. The letter was brief. It didn’t say much just:

“Having a good holiday. Hope you are, too. S.H.”

No call or letter from Mary, though.

John tried to stay busy all the holiday, got a job at the local Tesco, but at any given time, his thoughts turned back to Sherlock. All day, every day. 

Coming down the steps at home, he over heard a conversation in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with your brother?” his mom asked, concern in her voice.

“I don’t know mum, maybe he’s love sick.” Harry giggled. 

“What?” his mom sounded confused.

“He has a girlfriend –her name is Mary.”

“He’s had girlfriends before, Harry. I’ve never seen him like this.” She sighed. 

Quietly, John tiptoed back upstairs. 

His mum said she wanted to take him to the local doctor because he was so quiet, it made her worry. John talked her out of it though and tried to be more cheerful after that. 

John was relieved when it was time to go back. His parents offered to drive him, but he told them he’d rather take the train in. 

He still needed to think. 

He didn’t feel sorted, he didn’t feel calm and he didn’t feel happy. All he knew was he could not stop thinking about Sherlock Holmes.


	16. She Doesn't Have to Shave

LATE JANUARY, 1984 The train ride back to London was uneventful. When John emerged from the station, the day was bright and crisp. John doggedly trudged to the flat he shared with Mike and Sherlock and got there about noon. He dutifully unpacked, placing clean clothes in drawers.

And waiting.

Two hours later, the flat was still quiet. Not able to relax, John jumped every time he heard a car outside or footsteps on the stairs. 

Still no Sherlock.

Three hours later Mike came back.

Mike and John chatted, Mike unpacked.

Still no Sherlock.

As the sun was setting, the door opened. Sherlock walked in.

John jumped up off the sofa. 

“Hello.” Sherlock said calmly to his flatmates.

John's face was dark and clouded, “Where have you been? 

“I was with Lestrade were working on a ca---" Sherlock started. 

John interrupted. “I was worried about you. I waited all day. You didn’t even call.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Oh, I was not aware that you needed to be informed about where I was.” Sherlock said, voice steely and sarcastic.

John turned bright red and put his head down, “Well…No, no, of course not.”

Mike, who witnessed this exchange from the kitchen, tiptoed softly towards the door, opened it quietly and left the flat.

Sherlock and John stood in the sitting room, facing each other. 

Sherlock shrugged off his coat. He was the first to speak.

“I sent you a post card. I didn’t hear back.” He said quietly. 

“I’m sorry.” John said softly.

Sherlock shrugged and turning away from John, walked back to his room to hang up his coat.

John sighed and followed. It was now or never. “Sherlock…wait please, I would like to….can I, can I…are you hungry? Would you like to get something to eat? With me?”

“Now?”

“Well, yes…um...we could get Chinese or Thai or Indian…whatever you want.” John's voice shook ever so slightly.

Sherlock put his coat back on, smiling. “How about Italian?”

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Sherlock chatted quite happily en route to Anqelo’s and John tried valiantly to listen, but he had a nagging feeling he forgot something. He just couldn’t remember what it was. It was so nice to see Sherlock again. John was so excited and hung on Sherlock’s every word. He wanted to keep up his end of the conversation and ask questions about what he was working on with Scotland Yard.

Angelo’s was not far. As soon as they walked in the owner approached them.

“Sherlock, come in, come in!” The boisterous, friendly man escorted them to a table. “Sit, sit please!-- so nice to see you! Whatever you want, anything, anything on the menu for you and your date!” Angelo dropped off menus and walked away. 

“What did he say?” John asked confused and panicked. 

Sherlock was looking at the menu, humming slightly under his breath. 

“I’m not very hungry--you can order, I’ll have a salad, maybe.” Sherlock said distractedly, tossing the menu down. 

“Sherlock, why does that man think I’m your date?”

Sherlock shrugged and leaned in to whisper to john. “Well you are, aren’t you?” Sherlock winked at him and added excitedly, “Hey, guess what--I can have a glass of wine! I’m of age!”

John choked.

Sherlock laughed. 

“Relax, John. He doesn’t know anything, how could he?” Sherlock picked up the wine menu.

Then Sherlock got quiet and bit his lip, thinking. He leaned in to whisper to John.

“John, um….I may as well tell you---I’m gay---but I was hoping you knew that already.”

“Which is fine, of course.” John said in too much of a hurry, seriously, eyes wide. 

“Of course, it’s fine.” Sherlock said distractedly, perusing the wine menu. 

They sat in silence for a moment, then John tentatively said, “Actually, Happy Birthday of course, and I was hoping this could be maybe a belated birthday, um…dinner and my treat, but…um..., it looks like the food will be on the house.”

“Oh right, sorry, that’s Angelo--he’s always like that, he never takes my money.” Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “Let’s get a bottle of wine, then! My brother prefers sangiovese, but I’d rather have a pinot noir, especially if you are getting tomato sauce.”

John was silent, watching Sherlock scan the wine list again—reading it front to back as if he really knew what he was doing. 

Sherlock looked up, to find John just staring gape-mouth at him. 

“John?”

John blinked, “Yes? Um what?”

“The wine? You weren’t listening. It’s ok, I'll order.” Sherlock smiled.

Angelo came over to the table, placing a candle in the middle. Sherlock snickered, and John turned red as they ordered the food and wine.

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

The boys walked slowly back to the flat. The night was warm for January and they chatted all the way, Sherlock expanding on some of his theories about the case he was working on with Lestrade.

After dinner at Angelo’s and 3 glasses of wine, John felt a bit overfull. Although Sherlock ordered only a salad, he picked at the bread bowl and John’s pasta. John was surprised when Sherlock repeatedly grabbed olives off his plate, but he didn’t mind.

When the boys got home they realized that Mike was not there. They took off their coats, sat on the sofa and tried to busy themselves waiting for Mike to show. Although unspoken, there was a tension in the air that Mike could walk in anytime.

John got two beers from the fridge. He handed a beer to Sherlock. 

“Want to play a game?” asked Sherlock.

They got out the Cluedo board and created a makeshift table out of a small pile of books, with the game board on top, they started to play. 

But they didn’t get very far.

Sherlock took exception to the way the game was played and argued the logic of some of the rules. John spent a good portion of the game talking Sherlock out of changing the rules ad hoc.

When Mike came in the boys were sitting on the floor on either side of the game board—which was precariously atop a pile of books. The boys were involved in a heated argument about the game but invited Mike to play. 

John was studying the game rules like it was an important legal contract. 

Mike begged off. “As much as I’d love to, I have an early shift at the lab in the morning. Football tomorrow, John?”

“No…. pitch is unplayable after the recent rains—” John said distractedly, frowning and reading the fine print of the rules and not looking at all at Mike. 

“Day off then!” Mike said cheerfully.

“Yes-it’s been long week and I plan to have a lie in.” John added, still studying the rules.

“Ok ‘night, lads.” Mike went to his room and closed the door. 

“‘’Night.” The boys said.

After Mike went into his room and shut the door, John put the rules down. The Cluedo rules proved difficult to read, the print was very tiny, and John could barely make them out. 

John's legs were folded and cramped to accommodate the makeshift ‘coffee table’ so he stretched them out to either side of the book pile, his stocking feet ending up on either side of Sherlock’s folded legs. 

John sighed and shook his head, “You know Sherlock, I never have fun. Like this….” He pointed between them. “…with Mary. I have fun with you.”

"I have fun with you too, John.” Sherlock said quietly, looking down at John’s foot so close to his leg.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I wanted you to know...” John started, touching Sherlock’s outer thigh with his sock clad big toe. 

“….that I am breaking up with her. Unless she wants to break up with me, which would be fair.” 

There, he said it. 

Sherlock unfolded his legs one at a time, placing them over John’s. John’s legs were flat on the floor and Sherlock’s legs, being longer, were over John’s, but bent at the knees.

There wasn’t much between them now except for the Cludeo board and the stack of books. 

Sherlock shrugged, “John, I…..” he leaned forward and placed his right elbow on his right knee and leaned on his hand. John thought he looked sleepy, his half closed eyes not giving anything away. 

“No don’t worry, it’s for the best. Wasn’t working out.” John grabbed the game board and folded it up and set it aside. He scooted forward and started to remove the books one by one. Placing them to either side of their legs. 

John scooted forward again until they were very close. He looked at Sherlock’s eyes in the dim light of the sitting room, which made them have a silver cast. John reached out and touched Sherlock on the thigh and he gave a small gasp. 

“Not working out..” Sherlock repeated, “I’m glad.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John on the lips, gently. tentatively. John moved forward slightly and his hand started to wander from Sherlock’s thigh to his waist, where he pulled half of his shirt out of his trousers in an attempt to find the soft warm skin of his back. 

“Do you want to come into my room?” John asked.

“The bed is bigger in mine.” Sherlock answered. 

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````  
John peeked out of the door of Sherlock’s room. It was morning and he had to use the loo, there was nothing for it. The flat was quiet. Stamford’s door was closed, he must’ve already left for the lab. Giving a sigh of relief, John was in the hall and closing the door of Sherlock’s room just as Stamford came out of the loo. 

Bloody hell. 

John turned red. 

Stamford put his hand up. “It’s ok John, I know---“

John sighed as his shoulders slumped. Too bloody late. 

“No really, it’s ok—I’ve known all along and its ok and I won’t tell anyone. But if I were you--I’d call Mary, I wanted to tell you earlier--she called yesterday, and she sounded angry, so call her and…well…the rest, well, that’s none of my business. Just call her, won’t you?”

Mike walked away from John, towards his room.

John’s face was on fire, his cheeks were tingly, and he was slightly nauseous. “Thanks, Mike,” was all he could manage.


	17. Is That Love?

After the scare from Mike, John decided a hot bath was just the thing to help him calm down. He made his way to the loo, tuned on the hot tap and filled the bath. The hot water felt great on his sore muscles as he slowly eased himself into the bathtub. He made a mental note to try to go for a run later since there’d be no football today. 

As John sank into the hot water, he felt exhilarated and discouraged. He couldn’t get last night out of his mind. He wanted to stay up all night with Sherlock and never sleep. The more time he spends with Sherlock, the harder he finds it to tear himself from Sherlock’s side. He gets lost in their conversations, lost in Sherlock’s schemes, observations, and his brilliance. And now, as their relationship takes a new turn, he gets so lost in Sherlock, it frightens him. 

John wanted to shake himself for being such a ninny. What was going on? Why did he feel this way? What was he going to do?

Last night John had the best time he ever had in his life. He never thought he’d be so happy, he never thought he’d…be happy like this. With another bloke. He always thought of his sister as ‘the gay one’ and he was ‘the not gay one’. Ok-what does that mean? He’s not entirely gay—so he’s dated girls up ‘til now—but he’s not entirely ‘not gay’ either—because he’s with Sherlock and that’s just---wonderful. Really wonderful. And that’s ok. 

Its more than just ok—it’s brilliant.

What would his parents say?

What would Harry say? He’d get a good ribbing from her—for sure for being such a sop.

Jon ducked his head under the water, trying to soothe his sore mind. He started to recall more from last night and remembered that sometime in the middle of the night he awoke from a terrible night mare….

He was falling, falling and fast--- ready to hit the hard ground--John awoke in a panic, sitting bolt upright, covered in sweat, he glanced around the room--Sherlock’s room, he looked at the messy desk, strewn with books--piles of them all over, the papers, the periodic table on the wall, the violin in the corner. And next to him sleeping quietly, Sherlock—asleep on his stomach, head turned away from John. The cold January moonlight streaming in between the curtains, casting a few stripes along Sherlock’s hard muscled shoulders and back…the duvet kicked off and halfway on the floor.—John’s heart gave a clench. And John wanted to run. To run from this--all of this. But he couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. His heart hammering in his chest, he touched Sherlock on the shoulder. They had to talk about this, middle of the night be damned.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. 

He turned his head toward John… “MMM?”

“I…I have to ask you…something.” John said quietly, cautiously. 

“What is it?” Sherlock mumbled.

“I… I need you to please promise me…that…you won’t use drugs anymore.”

John thought he heard a small, quiet groan, then, no answer.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John insisted.

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded awake now and more than slightly irritated.

“It’s important.” John tried to make out Sherlock’s eyes in the dark, he thought he could see a cold glint looking up at him sideways from the pillow.

Quiet.

“Sherlock, I can’t, I can’t do this, at all, if you do.” It felt good, getting that off his chest.

“Of course, John.” Sherlock’s response seemed a little robotic to John. 

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Good…. thanks.” John sighed grabbed the duvet from the floor and pulled it over both of them as he lay back down. Soon, he could hear Sherlock breathing evenly, but John wondered if he was truly sleeping. 

And after that John fell into a fitful sleep until morning. 

John sat up to scrub his arms. With Harry for a sister and all her problems starting so young, out all night, his parents so angry at the crowds she hung with. Harry so determined to do her own thing…John often wondered if she was rebellious just to get their goat, but no, that was not it…she was who she was and he was, well ….who he was too…the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, now does it?

What a mess he’d got himself in with Mary and Sherlock. John scrubbed his head with shampoo, hoping the blood would rush there to offer him new solutions. Harry’d have a good laugh at him and may still, for his delicate 'predicament'. John wanted to laugh at himself, but he knew better. The situation also wanted to make him cry at the same time. He slowly put his head back under the water to rinse the shampoo, the water was getting cold, he’d better get out soon. 

Mary, Sherlock--of course there is no competition. Mary petite blonde, flirty, charming. Fun loving. And Sherlock--who defies all description. Imperious and vulnerable. Granite and fragile. As cold as ice and a hot as…well. God the night they just spent together was the most fun he had ever had in bed…and that was saying something. He could imagine himself staying with Sherlock forever…if…well. 

Forever is a very long time.

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Sherlock was laying on his stomach just waking from sleep. His eyes were still closed, and he realized that the other side of the bed was empty due to the lack of radiated warmth. 

He reached over, eyes closed, to gently touch the vacant spot and found the sheets still slightly warm. John could not have left the bed more than 5 minutes ago. 

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the tap start from the loo. 

John. John does his best thinking in the bath and he will be in there a while sorting himself out, Sherlock thought. As enthusiastic as John is about this new endeavor, Sherlock realizes he is also just as ambivalent, no – that’s not right, that’s not the right word, ok--‘frightened half to death’ would be a better description. 

Sherlock is well aware that he scares John. John is scared--Sherlock can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Sherlock alone scares John and Sherlock's drug use scares him more. Sherlock thinks this problem likely originates in John’s past and has something to do with his home life. His ?sister or maybe his father—someone in the family is likely to have some kind of substance abuse problem, but Sherlock is uncertain who and what kind. Sherlock wonders if John's father is violent. Is that the fear that Sherlock can see behind John’s eyes?

Sherlock can’t imagine why John has chosen to be with him. The fact that John would choose Sherlock over Mary--well that just boggles the mind. He was ready to promise John just about anything--the sun, the stars, the moon, and whatever else is in that damned solar system, but that’s not what John wants. John wants him to stay away from drugs. Sherlock agreed last night, even though he is not sure it is a promise he can keep. 

His restless mind-- thoughts always churning, nights spent awake, pacing the floor, not able to sleep. Last night was the first night he slept in? he can’t remember. The balm of John on his restless soul. Could he stay away from drugs? If he kept busy, had things to do and John, that just may be enough to tame his wild thoughts. 

 

Sherlock turns over and stares at the ceiling-- calculating. He knows he has to be careful with John not to make a wrong move that would completely scare him off. To do just what he wants, to keep him and not to lose him. 

What can he give John that Mary cannot? Is there something he can offer him?

And what would Mycroft say? 'Not to get attached' to a place, to a thing, to a person….

Sherlock found himself laughing.

And Mycroft finds himself right attached to puddings….

Sherlock can remember Mycroft lecturing him about a year ago, “Sherlock, you have a tendency to think with your heart on these matters. Just don’t bother, it’s better that way.”

He could imagine his brother standing, in his impeccable Armani suit, holding a sign that read ‘Puddings Not People’ and walking up and down #10 Downing Street or Buckingham Palace. 

Laughing, Sherlock launched himself out of bed to go see what John was up to.

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Up on two feet, Sherlock quietly slips on track pants and walks toward the bedroom door. Opening it a crack, he looks out to see John on the phone. He has the receiver up to his ear, head down, in the kitchen. 

John hangs up the phone on the wall and leaves his hand there, lingering. 

Sherlock walks out of the bedroom in his track pants, no shirt. “Good morning.” He says, trying to get John’s attention.

John turns toward him, “Oh hi.” John gestures to the phone on the wall. “….Mary—No answer. At her flat. I’ve called twice.”

“Oh.” Says Sherlock softly, walking into the kitchen and standing shyly in front of John, his hands in the pockets of his track pants.

“Well, how are you? Uh…also… no Mike—he went to work.” John shrugs and looks at his feet, cheeks pink and smiling slightly. 

They are alone.

“I’m good,” says Sherlock, moving toward John and wrapping his hands around each side of John’s waist. John gets up on his toes and tips his head up to kiss him and places a hand on Sherlock's smooth muscular chest, feeling his heart beating wildly, like he had just run up the stairs. 

John pulls away to speak, “Sherlock, um… Mike reminded me before he left--that there is a welcome back football party--yeah, I forgot. And I should go and of course you’re welcome to come too.” John hesitatingly said. 

Sherlock looks at the floor, doubtful… “UHHH…” he moans and rolls his eyes, not wanting to commit.

“No, really come—yeah--come along, it’d be great. Please.” John tries.

Sherlock found that John was distracted all afternoon and not very talkative, so Sherlock lounged on the sofa in his track pants, t shirt and dressing gown, watching John, pretending to read.

John tried 2 more times during the afternoon to reach Mary before he headed out to the party.

When John had to finally leave the flat, Sherlock told him to go on ahead and he’d be by later but John did not really think Sherlock would come to the party. 

“Last time I went to a uni party a building blew up.” Sherlock laughed.

“Well nobody’s perfect.” John shouted to him as he left. 


	18. Can of Worms

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to go to any party, and most of all a football party, with all the noise and commotion. 

Eventually, he found himself in front of the mirror fretting about what he was wearing. He stared at himself. I am too thin, he thought, my hairs’ too long, these trousers hang on me, he thought as he stood there in jeans and a white t shirt. I should wear a jacket. It’s January, after all.

Curiosity got the best of him and John would be there so, eventually Sherlock went over to the football house. 

Not wanting to stand out, he wore the most boring clothes he had, and tossed on an old jacket from the back of his wardrobe. He wanted to go unnoticed. 

The party was crowded, these parties always are. The house was big but it didn’t matter. Wall to wall people--all the footballers, loads of girls. No John, as far as Sherlock could tell, glancing around. He ran into Molly and Janine. Mary must be here, then. He didn’t want to ask, too obvious. He made a pretense of getting a beer. He held one of those American party cups stiffly, as if it was holding a noxious chemical. 

Around the corner he ran into Jim Moriarty. 

“Well, well, Sherlock--look who we have here. Are you slumming? Here with the chavs?” Jim asked in his smarmy tone.

“I could ask the same of you, Jim.” Sherlock said, glancing in his cup, sounding bored. 

“Well you, of all people know why I’m here, to make connections. You know some of those footballers have families made of money and of course those are the only people I like to hang out with. Can’t say the same about you, though.” Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Well you and John….” Jim continued and rolled his eyes.

“What are you talking about, Jim?”

“He’s awfully protective of you, isn’t he? And I thought you were such a big boy….long pants and everything… Look at how he jumped to your defense last time we saw each other, right?” Jim said, rubbing at his jaw, as if to make a point.

“Defense? I wouldn’t say that I felt like I was in any danger…Jim” Sherlock sneered, trying to sound unaffected by the veiled threat.

“How do you know?” Jim took a sip of his drink and swallowed hard, “That you weren’t in any danger?” He sneered. “You know, John Watson has quite the reputation here, rugged footballer that he is.... I heard he gets around quite a bit…heard he’s made his way through a least 3 of the residence halls…breaking hearts as he goes,” Jim snickered, and made a movement as if wiping a tear away from his eye.

Sherlock looked own his nose at Jim Moriarty. Jim was obviously having too much fun at his expense. Sherlock failed to see the joke. 

“Oh, and by the way, I have some great blow, if you are in the need. Unless, your new boyfriend won’t let you play with me anymore.” 

Sherlock wanted to avoid looking in Jim's eyes, so as to not give himself away, so he took a long drink from the offensive beer cup to camouflage his discomfort. He couldn't buy cocaine anyway, he brought no money with him tonight. "John's not my boyfriend." He said quietly and walked away. 

He could hear Jim laughing behind him. He walked quickly, bumping directly into Irene Adler, “…..and I don’t want to talk to you, either.” Sherlock said, sidestepping her. 

“What did I do?” she asked.

Sherlock was walking determinedly and as fast as possible, but didn’t exactly know where he was going in the big, confusing house. He wanted to get away fast, find the door, maybe just to find some air, but maybe go--get out of here. Not finding the door right away, he polished off the beer and went to look for more. 

By this point, he had stopped looking for John.

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“When John got to the house, his football mates were happy to see him, “John, John! So good to see you, mate! Been scarce yeah?” He heard some one in the group ask. 

“Uhh…No, just settling in, getting ready for the new term.” He said to no one in particular, smiling and pitching in, and setting out some cups and crisps before the guests arrived. 

“Yeah, that’s the John Watson I know---so serious about his studies!!” said Ian, the football captain, smiling. 

The group gave a big laugh, because everyone knew that wasn’t true. John was just as serious a socializer as he was a student. 

John turned red, fearing his reputation for having a good time had done him in. 

The party got crowded quickly. The beer flowed, John kept a look out for Sherlock, but it seemed as though he wasn’t going to make it. Just as well, John couldn't relax knowing he still had to talk to Mary.

John was about three beers in when Mary showed up, looking for him. As soon as she got there, she made a bee line for John, grabbing him by the upper arm. 

She whispered harshly in his ear. “John Watson!! There you are!” Mary was not smiling. 

John was talking to a group of football mates and their girlfriends and turned to her.

“Mary!”

“Don’t 'Mary' me! come here—” she pulled him into an empty bedroom, the one that held all the coats for the party goers. She shut the door.

“Well, explain yourself!” She was furious, hands on her hips. 

“Mary, Mary! Don’t be so mad! It’s nice to see you!” John was feeling a little drunker than three beers should have made him, when he realized he didn’t eat any dinner. 

“I’m not mad--I’m disgusted at your behavior! You left me!" Mary waited for an answer. 

John shook his head “Why? You mean--the pub? Listen Mary, I have to tell you—I’m sorry. I-- I am, but I had to go help Sherlock…” he gestured toward the door. The party was so loud, even with the door shut, the noise was coming into the bedroom. 

Mary stood there, listening quietly, expecting, waiting for more.

John was nodding, “I am, I am sorry, very sorry, but I had to go help Sherlock… so--I’m sorry.” He shrugged and put both of his hands up. He was swaying just a little. Oh yeah--there was that shot of Jägermeister he did before, on no, two--two shots. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock! That’s all I hear from you, John!! You know, we shouldn’t even be having this conversation--because you’re drunk.”

John shook his head, “I’m not! I’m not as drunk as I think I am.” He crossed his arms in front of him and then started to look around a bit. Where was his beer? Where did he set it down? He had it a moment ago…..

This made Mary laugh. She sighed and put her hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eyes. 

“John, I’m breaking up with you, whether you realize it or not. And whether or not you’ll remember it tomorrow. It’s over. It’s ok. I think I know what’s going on." She spoke very close to his face, looking directly into his eyes. 

“What? What’s going on?” asked John, making sure his feet were spread apart widely so as not to sway anymore. 

Mary stopped laughing. “I don’t know what it is between you and Sherlock,” she paused, swallowing, serous, her voice almost a whisper. “…but I see how he looks at you and…”

“And what?” John asked, truly bewildered. 

“Well, John,” Mary all but whispered, patting John on the shoulder, “…he’s in love with you. So, good luck with that.” And she tuned and left. 

As she opened the door abruptly, right outside, standing much too close to the door--as if listening in--was Sherlock. He stood straight up. 

“Oh great!” Said Mary, rolling her eyes, disgust evident in her voice.

“Hello Mary.” said Sherlock, now holding two beers---one in each hand. “Nice to see you.”

“Save it, Sherlock.” Mary said as she walked away, disappearing into the party.

John slowly walked out of the bedroom. He stood in the doorway and looked up at Sherlock, who was holding two red cups. John smiled shyly, still confused a bit about what just happened with Mary.

"Can I buy you a drink?" asked Sherlock, as he handed John a beer.

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Almost immediately, Sherlock realized he should not have handed that beer to John, as he was well along without it. Obviously, John had tried to bolster his confidence with liquid courage.

Endeavoring to plan ahead, Sherlock said quietly, “John, how about we head back to the flat?”

“That’s an excellent idea.” said John.

The cold air on the walk home brought John back a bit and Sherlock was happy he didn’t have to carry him. He would have done it of course, but it would have been terribly awkward. 

The boys chatted amiably, and owing to the quality of some of John’s observations, Sherlock was less afraid that John’d had too much to drink. 

Sherlock's conversation with Jim had left him unsettled. He did not feel that he could call John his boyfriend because he wasn’t sure he was, really. As far as Sherlock was concerned, John had not yet officially broken up with Mary. There had not been any kind of conversation where they discussed the definition of their relationship…yet. And if it was going to continue. Deep down, Sherlock still expected John to break it off at any minute, even when he is standing right beside him, or lying in his bed next to him.

They arrived back at the flat and realized Mike was not home. John flopped on to the sofa and laid there with his eyes closed. 

“John, do you need help to bed?” Sherlock stood beside the sofa, having already taken his shirt off. 

“Yes.” John said. Sherlock helped him stand and started walking towards John’s room. “Where are we going?”

“I'm taking you to your room.”

“No, I want to go to your room…..if that’s ok.”

“Sure.” Sherlock smiled and they walked into Sherlock room, John falling in a heap into bed. Sherlock helped him off with his shoes and John looked to be out cold, laying on his stomach. “…the rooms spinning.” He mumbled into the pillow. 

“I’ll get the bucket.” Sherlock offered, sighing and placed it next to John's head on the floor. 

After Sherlock brushed his teeth, he climbed into the bed and lay next to John who seemed to be snoring. He reached up to turn off the bedside light.

Sherlock was surprised when John turned over and edged his way to Sherlock’s side. John wrapped his right arm over Sherlock’s stomach, and wriggled his way under Sherlock’s right arm, with his head resting on Sherlock’s right shoulder.

“I was afraid,” He heard John whisper, mostly into his shoulder. 

“Afraid?” 

“Yeah…I was afraid that I’d tell her.” John said sadly. 

“Tell her what?”

“All about you. About your eyes and your laugh and your experiments and your deductions.” By this point, John’s voice was soft and slow. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure where this was going…the ramblings of a madman, no doubt. But it made him smile into the darkness.

“And your perfect bum.” John said a little louder. 

This caused and outright laugh from Sherlock. “Ok, John….” He chuckled.

“No, no, really it is…. perfect. I’ve seen it and it is. No doubt. No, I was really afraid I’d tell her how I feel about you. I was afraid she’d do something….to….” John trailed off, the rest was indecipherable.

“Something?” Sherlock shook John slightly by the shoulder, jogging him to explain before he fell asleep and the observation was lost.

“….to ruin it. Because I’m happy.” Things were quiet for a minute or two. Sherlock thought John fell asleep, but he continued, “I’m happy here with you…and I love…being with you.”

“I love being with you too.” Sherlock whispered into the darkness.

And right then, at that moment a very surprised Sherlock Holmes was the happiest he’d been in all his life.


	19. Labelled with Love

The rest of the term flew by. John's bed became a storage area. He piled clean laundry on it. He organized his books on it. He occasionally sat on it. 

There were classes, parties and football games. John tried to get Sherlock to come to one game, any game, but he adamantly refused.

 

John and Sherlock surprisingly had no confrontations with Jim Moriarty. It didn't matter that Sherlock was expecting it, round every corner, but it never came. As a matter of fact, they hadn’t seen him around the campus at all. With no words and no sightings, John was sure Jim had left uni. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not quite so sure. "I wouldn't underestimate him John, you don't know what he is capable of." "And you do?" Quipped John, smiling and raising his eyebrows. Sherlock blushed. "Um...well...no. But just be on your guard anyway."

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Towards the end of the term, John was in the library writing a paper. He had been there for hours, sitting quietly at a table. The library was bustling with students getting ready for exams. About halfway through his paper, he felt his heart quicken suddenly. He started to feel cold, as though maybe he was coming down with something. Maybe he was getting a fever. 

He looked up and saw Jim Moriarty standing and staring at him from across the room. Just staring. Other students were walking in and out of the library directly in front of and behind Jim, who was just standing at the one end of the room. Staring at John. 

John closed his book and sat up straight in his chair. He wasn’t sure if he should get up and leave. Then Jim turned slowly and walked out the door,disappearing into the hallway. John heaved a sigh of relief. He waited a few moments and packed up his books to go home, it was almost dinner time anyway. 

John stood up to collect his books and jumped a mile when he felt someone touch him on the back of the shoulder. He spun around.

It was Molly.

She blushed.

“John!” she said, looking down at her shoes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!”

John had a pain in his chest, as though he just got punched, but Molly didn’t cause it. “Right, it's ok.” he said, giving a sigh of relief. “Molly, how are you?” 

John still felt the need to look again over his shoulder. He was sweating profusely. He looked around quickly--nothing was amiss. 

“Good… um…John, are you leaving? Can we walk out together?” Molly asked. 

“Sure.” John said, to be honest, he didn’t feel at all at ease anymore in the library and was glad for the company. 

They chatted about the weather and exams and when they were almost parting ways, Molly paused and then just very directly asked for clarification of his relationship with Sherlock. John didn’t like being backed into a corner and hesitated to admit to anything, but Molly encouraged him to speak. 

“No really,” she explained, clearing her throat, “I want to know, because he’s my friend and I care about him.”

“Well…” John began. “It’s…um…I don’t know how…I’m, I’m not sure if Sherlock would…” John rubbed at the back of his neck, making quite a mess of himself in not explaining anything at all. 

Molly had to rescue John. 

“It’s OK John, no really--I just wanted to make sure he's.... happy.”

“…And,” she continued, looking again down at her shoes, cheeks pink, but voice very determined, “I wouldn’t want you to hurt him, so if you don’t feel the same way, I’d let him know as soon as possible, before it gets out of hand.” And Molly walked away, leaving John to just stare after her in amazement. 

John's feet felt rooted to the pavement. He was having a right properly weird afternoon. He stood looking after Molly until he felt a chill on his face and started walking towards home.

Hurt Sherlock? He mulled that over and over in his head on his walk home.

That’s funny, John was actually more afraid of the opposite.


	20. Funny How it Goes

John hurried through the streets at more than a bit of a run. From uni to the flat was about 10 minutes at a leisurely stroll. Now though, he felt some urgency to get home. Fast. 

This morning when he woke up his only worry was the paper he had to get in by the end of the day. Now after seeing Jim all but stalking him at the library and after that, enduring Molly’s scolding, John had other things on his mind. Lots of other things. 

He needed to talk to Sherlock. Maybe warn him?

About Jim mostly. John crossed streets with barely a look at traffic. His head was spinning with things to ask Sherlock. John was forced at one point to stop and wait for cars to pass. As he stood there, catching his breath, he hoped Sherlock was actually at the flat. Not only did John want to discuss Jim and maybe Molly...., he also wanted to bring up some more mundane topics, one that may make Sherlock angry. Too many things. John sighed. 

John was afraid that summer break maybe a sore subject to bring up to Sherlock, but in truth, it must be said. John’s mum wanted him to get a job at Tesco’s this summer. That would put the idea of him spending the summer in London (like Sherlock had wanted) right out. After discussing Jim, John may just as well bring up summer plans. This way, he'd get it over with on one horrible batch. So, plans for a horrible summer would be all set. John would be stuck in Chelmsford and unable to drive, he wondered if he would see Sherlock at all. 

What Sherlock was going to do with himself all summer was the least of John’s worries right now. 

Finally at the flat, John took the steps two at a time to the top and stopped. He was out of breath, his heart hammering away in his chest. He would have to recover for quite a few minutes before being able to have a sensible conversation with Sherlock. 

He was shocked when he opened the door to see Mycroft standing in the middle of the sitting room. 

Standing across from Mycroft was Sherlock. As John burst into the flat, he had obviously interrupted a conversation between the brothers, but now they are silent. Sherlock lowered his head, staring at his feet maybe or the patterns of the carpet. Mycroft turned to look at John, but Sherlock did not look up. 

John felt like he had just gulped down a large glass of cold water. 

“Is there something wrong?” Asked John. 

“John I..” Mycroft started softly, seriously, almost a whisper. 

John waited for Mycroft to continue as he held on tight to the doorknob. 

Mycroft cleared his throat, “I’m afraid I am the bearer of some bad news. You sister Harriet is in hospital. An overdose, I’m afraid.” 

The shock hits John like a wave. He can feel his cheeks flush, as anger and sadness crash over him. He feels unsteady on his feet. 

John gives Mycroft a hard stare, suddenly, surprisingly angry. “Why you?”

John thinks he can see a slight movement in the angle of Sherlock’s shoulders. He must be anticipating more of John’s anger. What else do they know? 

“Well, why not me?” Mycroft tone is still soft, reassuring, trying for familiarity, John thinks. 

“Surely the university? Or, or my mum--my family...” John falters, voice weak. 

John makes his way over to the sofa, legs collapsing as he sits. 

“Are at the hospital, overwhelmed and didn’t want to worry you during test week.” Mycroft answers. 

“Oh.” John sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. 

“I’m sorry John, I guess I presumed a liberty here, but I thought you would want to know. I apologize for overstepping my bounds.” Now, Mycroft Holmes looks at his feet. 

Sherlock, uncharacteristically quiet, walks over to the sofa, sits down and put his hand gently on John’s shoulder. 

“I just have one paper….” John said, looking at Sherlock, voice weak. 

Sherlock immediately understands. 

“Give it to me John, I can give it to your professor in the morning.” Sherlock offers.

John looks at Sherlock, his usually silver green eyes are now a cloudy grey. John nods at him, thankful for the offer. Standing up, he reaches into his bag and hands the paper to Sherlock. Shoulders squared, composing himself, he clears his throat and asks, “Which hospital?”

“Broomfield. I have a car outside.” Mycroft turns and walks towards the door. 

John leaves with Mycroft, not getting a chance to mention Jim, Molly, or plans for the summer. He had to get to Chelmsford. 

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

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Outside on the kerb, Mycroft parted from John and wished him good luck. John climbed into the back of the long dark car and the driver pulled away into the road. John did not give any thought that the driver knew exactly where he was going. Just another inexplicable fact of life with the Holmeses that John had uneasily accepted. He wastes no brain power asking 'why' or 'how' right now. 

His head and heart are aching. He ignores his growling stomach— no time for dinner, but thinks of his parents, keeping vigil at Harry’s bedside. Anger is a companion to his sorrow. He is angry both at Harry and himself. 

Irresponsible Harry--in her last year in secondary school, making the most of it and spending her time at parties and pubs and not at the library. Who are her friends now? John has not been home since Christmas holiday. Had things changed? He knew there were some shaky acquaintances in her past—but last time he saw Harry she had been well---had she reconnected with a bad sort? 

John cannot help but admonish himself for leaving his sister, although he knows it is wrong of him. He could not have stayed in Chelmsford. He has a life and a responsibility to get an education. His parents have responsibility too----they should be keeping better eye on their daughter. 

John's dark thoughts accompanied him all the way home. The long dark car smoothly pulled up to the front of Broomfield Hospital. The driver was out and opening John’s door before he was ready to exit. He sat in the car, momentarily staring. 

"Sir?" The driver asked. “This is Broomfield Hospital.”

“Right. Of course.” Said John, getting out. Standing on the kerb, he shoved his hands in his pockets as if looking for money for a tip. 

The chauffeur put his hand up in a polite refusal. “No need, sir. Will you be needing me to wait, Sir? I was supposed to ask.”

John stared at the front of the hospital. The windows bright as the sun moved lower in the late April sky. 

He looked back at the driver. “Oh no, that won’t be necessary, thanks.”

“Of course, sir.” The driver walked away, silently getting into the car and pulling away. 

John watched the car pull away, realizing just now that he had no clothes or bag with him.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````  
Sherlock flattened himself against the wall. Glancing sideways and holding his breath, he tried not to move the window curtains as he watched John leave. He could see John say something to his brother before getting into the black sedan, but couldn’t make out what it was. Knowing John, it was most likely another ‘thanks’. 

John could be annoyingly considerate. 

Sherlock kept his voyeurism brief. Although John may not think to look up at the windows, Mycroft would. When Mycroft did look up at the flat windows, Sherlock was not there. 

After John left, Sherlock was alone and flopped about the flat like a fish out of water. He tossed himself on the sofa, sat in all the chairs and threw himself on the bed. To no avail, he could not quiet his mind from worry about John. 

Sherlock knew very well that there would be no sleep for him tonight. He didn’t expect to hear from John until tomorrow at the very least. He stared at John’s paper. Best get that out of here now. The responsibility of that small sheaf was pulsating at him from the kitchen table. Drop it off at the professor’s office and move on with life.

Sherlock picked it up. Luckily, John had scribbled the building name and office number in the margins. The sun was setting and Sherlock had an idea. Rolling up the paper, he tucked it into the pocket of his coat. 

```````````````````


	21. Up the Junction

John approached the hospital door. A heavy anchor of dread weighed down his heart. Once inside, he was guided to intensive care by helpful staff. The floor had a hushed quiet that seemed to insulate it from outside noise. 

John did not mean to take his parents by surprise, but he did just that when he appeared in the doorway of the family waiting room. 

His mother ran to him first. “Oh John!” His mother’s eyes were wild when she saw him, “….How?….How did you get here? Who told you? How did you know?” She looked helplessly from John’s concerned face to his father. “John…we didn’t tell…” and falters off, bewildered.

“Sorry Mum….it’s really…um I don’t think I can, um…” John felt his face turn red as he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. How Mycroft came to know about John’s family emergency was the question of the day. 

Mycroft didn’t exactly say it was a secret, but John knew better. 

John could not think of any remotely believable story to tell his parents. 

So, the truth then.

“Well, he sighed. “It’s really quite a long story that I’ll tell you sometime I reckon, but I can’t now, sorry. How is Harry?”

And of course, it didn't matter how he got here, did it?

“Oh, John! Mrs Watson fell onto John’s shoulder crying. When she caught her breath, he guided her to a chair to sit. 

“We are just so lucky--she’s very sick, but they may be able to take out the tube soon…and maybe see if she can breathe on her own…”

“Mum what happened?”

“We still don’t know John. The kids didn’t say…it’s just, just…” she dissolved again into tears.

“It’s ok, mum.”

John addressed his father. 

“Do you two want to go and get a cuppa tea, then?---take a walk and get away from here for a few minutes? --and I’ll stay? Yeah--go an’ take a break. I’ll be here.”

His father nodded and took his mother’s hand. She stood and patted John on the shoulder and they walked quietly into the hallway.

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Flying down the steps, Sherlock ran out to the street. The sun was setting. In a few blocks he was at Tesco’s, where he could get what he wanted. In ten minutes, he was at university and in another five he was inside the locked university building. 

He was glad he decided to purchase the screwdriver, mostly for its appearance of harmlessness, just in case he was caught. A pocket knife would work too, but there’s always more of a risk with a knife. 

Walking round back near the bins and pushing the flat head against the strike plate, Sherlock popped the door open. Not even a squeak. So easy it was laughable. Child’s play.  
Luckily for the university, he didn’t have anything more on his mind besides dropping off a term paper.

In a few minutes he dropped off the paper in the correct office and softly closed the door of the building behind him. 

And now, his mission completed, he can get on with the rest of the evening.  
``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Sherlock walked a few blocks, wishing John was with him. That’s how he preferred it to be. Barring that, he wished he could be with John in Chelmsford. But Sherlock knew that tonight Mycroft was right, sod him. This is something John needed to do alone. John and his family were having a crisis and there was no room for Sherlock there. Not tonight. He sighed and reached into the pocket of his coat for the pack of cigarettes and lighter that he had also purchased at Tescos. Sherlock laughed at himself--what else could he get up to tonight, he wondered? Back to his old tricks of addiction and breaking and entering, even thought it was for a good cause. Well, he had to do something to get his mind off of John…..or the lack of John….who may not be back at uni for a few days…. Feeling the nicotine coursing through his veins, Sherlock felt calmer. He was a bit pleased that he could help John out, even if it was a very little thing like the term paper. Turning towards home, he decided that there were things he could get up to in the flat to keep busy. After walking a block, he decided maybe he’d make some new slides with a new fixative he had gotten in the mail. “Sherlock! Sherlock!” he turned to the sound of his name and saw Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford and Liz Mike’s girlfriend waving at him from down the street. Too late to avoid them. Disappointingly, he could see them speed up to catch up to him. Bugger.


End file.
